


The Red Witch

by sanyumi, Vios_Shadow



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Curses, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Longing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other, Pining, Slow Burn, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Witch AU, aziraphale is bad at being a warlock, aziraphale takes care of snake crowley, based on masao-micchi's witch AU, crowley was cursed to be a snake, eventually, potions and spell casting, the red witch, warlock!aziraphale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2020-11-08 09:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20833373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanyumi/pseuds/sanyumi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vios_Shadow/pseuds/Vios_Shadow
Summary: “Oh, dear. You’re hurt.” Aziraphale spoke softly, reaching a tentative hand out and gently gliding his finger down the black scales. The snake lifted it head curiously, as if taking in Aziraphale, who stopped before his fingers grazed the open wound that stretched almost down to it’s tail.[Aziraphale is a warlock-- though he's not very good at it-- who discovers an injured snake who, unbeknownst to him, is the famous Red Witch, the high sorcerer to the royal family, cursed to present in snake form. Together they make an interesting pair]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to take masao-micchi's [Witch AU](https://masao-micchi.tumblr.com/tagged/gowitchau) and turn it into a story and, with their permission, I am! 
> 
> This was supposed to be a oneshot, but as I was writing this, I realized I wanted to explore this idea as far as I can. So, this might turn into a real story, or it might just be small chapters of exchanges or happenings within the verse without a real timeline. I haven't figured it out yet! But for sure there will be chapters in Crowley's POV, he's a very opinionated serpent... even if he can't speak in this form.

Many witches and warlocks grow into their power naturally, usually through their family, genetically. It was very common to learn by yourself, witches weren’t independent, but it was expected to take matters into your own hands; inherit the powers passed down to you. Some families were famous for their impressive genealogy, though some _ in _famous by marrying their brothers, sisters, cousins… keeping the bloodline pure. 

Some went to the Academy of Magic to hone their powers and rise to power more quickly… if you had money and happened to live close enough to attend the only magical school in the world.

Aziraphale wouldn’t know what that was like… he was very unique in the village he grew up. Always running about by himself, carrying his books and papers like an eager delivery man instead of keeping a bag to hold his belongings like a sane person. And he kept to himself… always in his cottage, passed down to him from his family, or so the villagers suspected. Though he wasn’t a recluse. Indeed, Aziraphale was always up for a conversation when approached and kept an air of positivity and pure joy that was almost tangible wherever he went.

Which was curious because… Aziraphale was always alone. He didn’t have parents, or any noticeable family. His neighbors, if asked, would tell you that they honestly couldn’t remember when Aziraphale had come to their small town, only that one day, decades ago, he had arrived. 

They watched him now, leaving out his front door and, with a wave of his hand, locked the door behind him.

Or, attempted to. As Aziraphale walked down the steps, behind him the doorknob fell off and rolled around the porch, unbeknownst to the spry warlock who was now creating distance between himself and the very much, broken door.

His neighbor sighed, taking out her wand and casually lifting the bronze handle and reattaching it to the old wooden door… again.

Aziraphale made his way to the woods, the only tools with him being his wand, a worn notebook, and his potions, held safely in the brown leather belt securing around his tunic, which was an off-white cotton, impossibly soft, from years of use. He hummed to himself, looking around him, taking everything in as he explored deeper into the trees. 

His hands came out, gently touching leaves and underbrush as he went, stooping down occasionally to inspect some berries or a curious rock, and as he got closer to water, moss.

Aziraphale began filling the empty pouches in his belt with the moss, settling down at the edge of the stream and taking out his notebook to scribble in while the sounds of bubbling water settled around him, relaxing him.

“Oh, lavender, how lovely!”

Aziraphale got up, dusting off his backside and wandered over to a small patch of wild lavender, sinking carefully to his knees and plucking some up, sniffing, and carefully depositing them into another pocket.

A small hiss made his ear twitch.

“Hm?” Aziraphale looked around, his wide brimmed hat flopping with the effort.

Aziraphale heard the hiss again and looked down, brows furling in determination as he slowly parted the long grass and purple flowers, searching, following the sound of the hissing. His hands stuttered, faltering when he came across the snake, before parting the grass with more confidence.

“Oh, dear. You’re hurt.” Aziraphale spoke softly, reaching a tentative hand out and gently gliding his finger down the black scales. The snake lifted it head curiously, as if taking in Aziraphale, who stopped before his fingers grazed the open wound that stretched almost down to it’s tail.

Aziraphale bit his lip and nodded, scooping up the large snake without warning, not that the serpent could do much to fight him off except coil lazily around Aziraphale’s arm in a warning without any pressure.

“Now don’t fuss,” Aziraphale chided softly, keeping the wound up and away from his palm. “I can patch you up in a jiffy, just need to get you home first. I know I have a remedy, somewhere…”

If snakes could glare, this one did it’s best impression, doing it’s best to keep his head high and watch Aziraphale as he made his way back home.

* * *

“Now I know it’s here, somewhere…” 

The snake seemed to watch in trepidation or curiosity, maybe both, as the young warlock riffled through his belongings. Glass bottles clinked loudly and loose leaf pages fluttered angrily to the floor.

The snake observed from the desk he had been placed on, curled up in a ball of shiny black and red, and not just from the wound, Aziraphale had noted. The gorgeous serpent also had a red belly, like a thick stripe from tail to head, all 40ish inches of him, Aziraphale guessed.

Who returned to the snake triumphantly, holding a couple small bottles of different liquids, and a handful of herbs.

The snake recoiled as Aziraphale dumped his loot haphazardly on the flat surface next to it. 

“So sorry, dear boy. Didn’t mean to startle you. At least… I think you’re a boy, yes?”

The snake pulled it’s thick tail underneath him, as if in defiance. Azirphale chuckled softly.

“It’s like you can understand me! Okay so, please stay still my dear…”

The snake obliged warily, keeping his ever watchful eyes on Aziraphale the entire time as he worked on the wound.

Aziraphale finished up by wrapping the herbs tight against the open wound with a clean cloth, securing it with a dissolvable tape.

“The bandage is merely a precaution, I know you’ll be able to shimmy out of it, but I’d like to keep the chamomile in place to take away any discomfort you might feel. Oh, how do you feel, pretty snake?”

The snake looked away, around the room, taking in the mess of books, bottles, jars, ink and so on, and back to Aziraphale. He slithered toward his elbow, perched on the desk and curled around it, flicking his tongue out.

Aziraphale’s eyes drooped in content, watching the snake with fondness creeping into his chest.

“I must admit I’ve never cared for a snake before, or any living creature, really…” He trailed off, looking out the window. “But I’m already growing very attached to you. Would you like to stay here with me? You don’t have to, of course.” Aziraphale babbled on, laughing at himself.

“I have a garden, maybe you’d like it? You could keep away the rodents for me!”

The snake made a face, if possible, that may have mirrored disgust at the thought of eating mice, but Aziraphale figured he was just imagining it.

* * *

Later that evening, Aziraphale was seated in his favorite chair, reading, when he felt the tell-tale sensation of being watched. He looked up and noticed the large snake curled on the rug in front of the fire mantel, his head poking out of the bundle he had coiled himself into, and watching Aziraphale with eyes that flickered golden, not unlike the fire crackling behind him.

Azirphale smiled lightly to himself, feeling a tad unnervered but also comfortable, protected somehow. Like the snake was watching over him. He looked back down to his book, content in the silence.

After a long moment, Aziraphale nearly halfway through his book, he looked up again, and the snake was still watching. He took note of his page and set the book aside, drawing his legs up and tucking his bare feet underneath him.

“I’m a warlock, if you couldn’t tell already.” He started softly. A part of him felt a little silly, talking to a snake, but something told him his new house guest was anything but an ordinary serpent. Said serpent's head lifted slightly, as if listening. Aziraphale hesitated, looking down at his clasped hands, fiddling with his pinky ring, before continuing.

“You seem very clever, have I gotten your attention?” He looked up again. The snake bowed it's head, body twisting slowly to unravel himself a bit, relaxing.

Night had fallen outside, the only light in the room was the flickering fire and the small table lamp next to Aziraphale. He always liked the dark, it was quiet and everywhere and always present, even during the day. Aziraphale was fascinated and elated that the snake had stuck around all day into the late night. The warlock had left him alone after healing him, allowing the snake to explore around the cottage, keeping a eye out as the snake meandered through his texts and dusty bookshelves, only managing to knock a few things over.

He never did go outside, the snake. Aziraphale caught him, more than once, looking at the books, _really_ looking at them, as if reading the words, studying the runes and symbols scribbled onto the parchment. Aziraphale briefly wondered if he brought an evil spirit into his home, but upon further inspection, concentrating on the snake's aura, Aziraphale found the snake... complicated to read. But at least he wasn't evil.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Aziraphale asked the snake, not expecting an answer, but it was nice to talk to someone.

The snake tucked it's head underneath it's tail, and didn't reemerge. Aziraphale laughed softly.

"Very well, I'll let you be." He finished, picking up his book again and starting from where he left off.

After a few minutes, the snake's head popped back up, looking at the warlock again, and felt himself drifting to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think this is turning into a story! It's more or less just going through their lives... I'll be including all the scenes from the comics as well, in some form or another. Please let me know what you think!
> 
> This chapter is in Crowley's POV

Crowley’s vision came into focus slowly, startling himself at the walls that surrounded him, the shaggy texture underneath his body and--

Oh, that’s right, he was in someone’s house. That warlock who saved him. His tongue flicked out, tasting the air, sensing the dust in the small space, the smell of parchment paper, and dozens of herbs and spices, like a tea sommelier’s dream. He slowly uncoiled himself and pushed his body along the floor, missing his warm spot by the fire as the wooden floorboards slid along his belly.

Crowley wasn’t quite used to being a snake yet, but he was figuring it out. It had been months since his unfortunate encounter with a malevolent witch. He still had a little bit of magic in him to help him see more clearly than what he imagined a normal reptile would. Not having eyelids was easy enough to endure, the tongue thing was… quite fun, actually.

Getting hungry? Not so much fun. And right now Crowley was famished. Out in the woods, after fighting off the bird that attacked him, he hadn’t the strength to hunt and, after days of trying, resigned himself to his stupid fate. A bed of wild lavender at least was a pleasant spot to take a nap… for a very long time.

Slithering up to the chair the warlock was sitting in, Crowley poked his head higher onto the cushion, staring up at the man’s sleeping form, book fallen to his chest, which rose and fell evenly with each breath he took.

Crowley allowed himself to watch for a while, flicking his tongue out, tasting the scent of his savior, memorizing the flavor of chai and woodsmoke. It was nice, comforting, it reminded Crowley of his youth, collecting wood to chop during long winters and practising his fire magic when his mother wasn’t looking.

The warlock’s hair shone almost golden in the light of the fire, but remembered from earlier in the day how it was nearly white. It’s curls fluffy and silken, almost feathery, especially seeing it this close. Crowley wondered how soft it would be. He missed having hair… 

He continued observing, unashamed in his gazing, down the man’s face, round and with a youthful plumpness that made Crowley wonder how old the warlock was. Witches and warlocks aged more slowly than humans, some taking on the more definitive traits like the smooth skin and rounded ears. Crowley, before he was cursed into his snake form, had pointed ears and sharp canines. Some witches had flecks of color on their skin, some warlocks had uniquely colored eyes, red or purple. The warlock before him looked… eerily human. Soft in all the wrong places, not just his stomach and thighs, but his demeanor when he found Crowley. Kind and gentle… or maybe Crowley just didn’t know any decent magical folk… 

Crowley’s forked tongue slipped out again, feeling his lower half curl under him for a more stable base to ogle. He wished he had his old powers to read the man’s aura. Something about him was definitely too… normal. But he was obviously a magical creature like him. Crowley spotted a wand next to the lamp on the end table, and from it’s wear and tear, Crowley could tell it was being used. Humans couldn’t even hold wands.

Falling back, Crowley slithered around until he found a crack in the window above the desk and slipped outside, carefully traipsing down the ledge and into the cool night.

Though he managed to hold onto his real eyesight, Crowley could still see in the dark, making his way to the garden, taking the young warlock’s offer to hunt for dinner.

* * *

Crowley awoke again to blackness, he heard footsteps coming near and a voice he was already becoming accustomed to.

“Snake, are you out here my dear?”

Crowley thought for a moment of staying hidden, but the fear of being stepped on changed his mind. He moved out from under the plank of wood he’d curled under, turning his head to the warlock who met his eyes instantly.

“Oh, there you are! Enjoying my garden?”

_ Not really… _ Crowley thought. He’d managed to get a mouse last night, but finding his way through the uneven rows of plants and vegetables and _ weeds _was like being in a jungle. 

_Don’t you know to pull your weeds?_ _Tend to your plants! _Crowley chided in his head. Outwardly he hissed, slithering over to the man’s feet and accidently startling him.

“Goodness, guess this is something I’ll have to get used to,” he chuckled fondly, bending down and putting his hand out, offering.

Crowley raised his body as high as he could without leaning on the warlock’s leg for support, and allowed himself to be scooped up, immediately coiling himself around the man’s arm.

“You’re much more lively today, let’s take a look at your injury.”

The warlock’s arm was so warm, Crowley felt himself instinctively tighten his hold around him, pushing away the urge to nuzzle his face into the soft fabric of his tunic. The man didn’t complain, as they made their way back inside.

The warlock inspected his wound, which Crowley honestly couldn’t feel anymore. He _ was _feeling more lively, he realised. When he woke up last night in front of the fire, he felt rejuvenated, the spot where the gash had been didn’t even register to him anymore. Guess whatever cocotion the man used worked. Crowley felt lucky to be rescued by a benevolent warlock.

Who had yet to introduce himself to Crowley.

He stared up at the man, flicking his tongue out impatiently as he babbled on about how happy he was to see only a scar remaining on the snake’s body. Crowley was hoping his request for the warlock’s name was coming through in his gaze, but he doubted it.

“... honestly surprised it worked out,” the warlock chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. If Crowley still had eyebrows, one would have cocked upward. But before he could decipher that, _ why wouldn’t it work? _ the warlock had turned and made his way across the room.

Crowley waited, wondering what the man was up to, before he returned, a satchel over his shoulder and his wide brimmed hat sitting atop his head.

“By the way,” the warlock started, shifting the strap of his satchel to fit more comfortably. “I never asked your name, not that you could tell me I guess. It was very rude of me. I’m Aziraphale.”

_ Aziraphale _, Crowley hummed to himself, his head tilting up and to the side.

“I’ll have to think of a name for you, wiley serpent,” Aziraphale smiled to himself, the skin around his eyes crinkling with the effort. Crowley caught himself staring, not that it might’ve looked any different than usual to a witch or warlock, but the sight of Aziraphale smiling so wide was nearly hypnotising.

Unable to decipher the snake’s dumbfounded gawking, Aziraphale plowed on. 

“I’m heading into town, have a few errands to run… would you like to join me?”

Crowley noticed Aziraphale’s hands on the strap of his bag, wringing them out nervously, as if asking Crowley to accompany him would inconvenience the serpent in some way.

As an answer, Crowley slid toward Aziraphale, wondering how exactly Aziraphale would bring him along. Maybe carry him? Let Crowley drape himself over his shoulders?

Crowley gave an indignant hiss when Aziraphale opened his satchel and gestured for him to go inside.

* * *

Crowley hadn’t been back into town since his transformation, learning early on how easily his serpentine form scared people, even witches, not to mention dodging cats and trolley wheels. Hiding in shops had been more than useless, always managing to be found and shooed out with broom bristles. Crowley hated being manhandled, let alone _ shoved aside _.

Even before he was cursed, Crowley hardly found time to be among the people, the humans mingled in with his own kind. Being the sorcerer for the royal family was more of a political position than he had known during his youth. He had already become well known for his impressive skills and extraordinary powers, being appointed high sorcerer had skyrocketed his fame overnight, and suddenly he was unable to walk the common streets of the kingdom.

Not that he minded it, sometimes it was fun being famous, most of the time it was boring. _ Heh _, maybe he should’ve taken his job more seriously or he wouldn’t have ended up cursed in a snake’s body.

Crowley let his head dangle out of the corner of Aziraphale’s bag, his body curled up, not totally uncomfortable, the jostling was annoying though. He watched as Aziraphale passed by vendors, people, all of whom paid the young warlock no mind, or at least he assumed so, since no one had noticed the snake hanging out of the satchel. Crowley was so used to all eyes being on him, it was kind of nice being ignored for once… though a small part of him wondered why no one was even greeting Aziraphale, nodding toward him in recognition.

Aziraphale stopped first at a trader, emptying out the contents of his bag-- which Crowley was grateful for-- and handing over loosely tied bags of ground herbs, salts, and potions. At one point his hand came down over Crowley’s head, which had ducked into the depths of the bag to conceal himself from the salesman, startling both of them.

“Oh, my apologies, dear boy.” His hand came back down, but this time in a purposefully gentle pet that Crowley liked more than he should’ve.

“Is that a snake?” The man behind the counter asked in a gruff voice. Aziraphale’s hand lifted and Crowley followed it, revealing his upper body to the man. Crowley’s saffron eyes glinted in suspicion at the greedy smile he took on.

“Now that’s a beaut. Give ya 50 gold pieces for ‘im.”

Crowley’s tongue flicked out. _ Please, I am worth so much more than 50. Don’t let this guy scam you, Aziraphale. _

“Ah, well…” His voice turned apologetic, a hesitant smile unable to touch his eyes. “He’s not for sale. How much for these?” He pushed his modest pile toward the man, not even giving the offer a thought.

Aziraphale took his trade offerings, bid the man good day, and left the shop. Crowley had since slunk back into the darkness of the now empty bag, pushing his nose into a corner, letting the feeling of gratitude wash over him that Aziraphale didn’t actually give him away. It wasn’t like Crowley wouldn’t have been able to escape, but it made his cold blood warm at the realization that Aziraphale was quick to decline the offer.

When Crowley emerged again, they were in another shop, a broom shop, though it looked more like an antique store.

Crowley stuck his tongue out, tasting dust and mold. He glared up at Aziraphale. Silently judging him.

“I can’t afford anything fancy…” Aziraphale muttered to himself, just loud enough for Crowley to hear. He looked down at the snake and smiled. “Would you like to help me pick one out, my dear?”

_ No _. 

Aziraphale did his laps around the shop anyway, which must’ve been second hand, or regular old house brooms with a charm placed upon it. Crowley shook his small head side to side when he could sense fake brooms, put off that Aziraphale couldn’t seem to tell. They took their time, the warlock picking up various brooms and testing out the handle, running his fingers through the straw at the bottom, mounting a few he felt certain about.

After his purchase was made, Aziraphale hummed to himself as he continued his trek, stopping at the local market and picking up some meat and vegetables he didn’t grow in his garden.

“I broke my last broom,” Aziraphale started randomly, when he noticed Crowley looking up at him from his spot in the bag. He took a bite out of some honey coated pastry, slowing down and closing his eyes in satisfaction.

Crowley waited for him to explain, flicking his tongue out again to taste the smell of the honey and fresh baked bread.

“Wasn’t able to repair it… such a shame. I had that broom for as long as I could remember…”

Crowley eyed Aziraphale skeptically. Magical broom sticks, real ones, were very durable and typically lasted a lifetime. It became part of the witch or warlock much like their personal spell casting wands. It would take something huge to destroy one, something else magical. Any kind of cracks or pulled out hairs could easily be remedied with a simple healing spell. Crowley wondered what exactly his new friend got up to… or if he even knew how to heal a broken broomstick.

Nah, couldn’t be that.

“The Red Witch is still missing?” 

Crowley looked round the same time Aziraphale did, noticing a group of young warlocks making their way past them.

“Heard the last mission he was sent on he never returned. Maybe he died.”

“You can’t kill the Red Witch… maybe he’s been taken prisoner!”

“By what? A dragon? He’d probably make it his familiar.”

The boys laughed, far away enough now that Crowley couldn’t hear them anymore.

There was a part of Crowley that was pleased his reputation proceeded him, another part that was angry that the boys didn’t seem much worried about his safety… and then wondered how the palace was getting by without him. If the young Warlock missed him… if anyone had been sent out to search for him.

“Oh… I do hope the Red Witch is alright…” Aziraphale deflated, looking to the ground as his walk slowed to a crawl.

Crowley perked up curiously.

“He’s been gone for months, you know,” he directed at Crowley. “I’ve never met him, or really seen him properly. But I’ve heard how powerful he is, everyone has.” He absent mindedly stroked his fingers down Crowley’s head, who pushed into it, unsure how else to react.

Aziraphale smiled again, though it was still sad. “His real name is Crowley, or so I’ve heard. Hey!”

He stopped. They were on the outskirts of town now, no one around them to speculate why the young warlock was talking to a snake.

Aziraphale offered his hand and Crowley slunk over it and onto his other arm as well, draping himself loosely until Aziraphale had his head up high to look into his eyes.

“How about I call you Crawly? It’s like Crowley, but, you know. You’re a snake so it makes sense, right?” He beamed and Crowley and he felt his snake body become even more boneless.

Aziraphale laughed at his reaction, hefting him back up to be more eye level. 

“Do you like that? Being named after the famous Red Witch? I heard he’s beautiful, with long red hair and gold bands…” His eyes looked lost for a moment, as if picturing the famous warlock. His gaze focused back on Crowley and the snake wondered why he was feeling warm all the sudden.

“You’re much prettier, of course, dear Crawly.”

Crowley hissed skeptically, or tried to, in his head it sounded more like a spluttering sound, and quickly slipped back into Aziraphale’s bag, embarrassed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These short chapters aren't really my style. But I kinda like the divide between Crowley and Aziraphale's POVs. Maybe I'll experiment with both in one chapter next time. I'm honestly just making this up as I go as well, which is terrifying :'D

Aziraphale kept himself busy around the house on most days. He lived a quiet, comfortable life of studying, mixing spices and herbs, tending to his garden, and now, taking care of a snake.

He had procured a large tank Crawly could live in, the snake had watched with seeming apprehension as Aziraphale set it up with a lamp, a pool of water, and a thick branch he could climb up.

When he turned to show his work to Crawly, however, the snake turned tail and slipped away faster than Aziraphale had ever seen him move. He found him days later buried inside his favorite chair, coiled amongst the pointy springs. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said sincerely, on his hands and knees, tilting his chair back and only seeing the yellow of Crawly’s eyes in the torn fabric. “I should have known better than to confine you to a tank. That was foolish of me.” 

Crawly watched, instead, Aziraphale attempt to charm a large rock into staying warm for the reptile. He sat in the middle of the sitting room, legs folded underneath him, and tapping the rock with his wand.

It turned red and began to sizzle. Crawly, who laid opposite the rock, lifted his head in apparent shock.

“Sorry, that’s not supposed to happen…” Aziraphale scratched his temple with the tip of his wand before tapping it again, rendering it back to a normal, grey stone.

“Maybe if I try…”

Aziraphale tapped it again and the rock exploded.

Crawly had retreated to the garden after that, and Aziraphale couldn’t blame him. 

Days went on living with the serpent. Aziraphale was happy for the company, he hardly had anyone to talk to, and the snake was a very good listener. Crawly’s presence on his daily walks into the woods nearby was also nice, Aziraphale becoming more comfortable with the snake and letting him drape around his shoulders as they explored together. As the sun set, Crawly would always come inside after most days spent in the garden and Aziraphale would start a fire in his mantel, getting into the habit now to light it every night for his snake, who would always curl up on the shag rug in front of it and doze.

Within a few weeks of this, Aziraphale started to notice his book shelves become disarrayed (more than usual), parchment paper missing, and bottles of expensive elixirs significantly drained. Frustrated, he didn’t know what to make of this, and would always take time during the day to rearrange his books in their proper order.

The only explanation had to be Crawly, Aziraphale had recalled the snake slipping in between his texts on that first day he brought him home.

“Have you been going through my things, young man?” Aziraphale adopted a tone a father might use on his son.

Crawly just looked up at him, yellow eyes bored.

“Now, I don’t mind you getting up to a bit of reading, but please put the books back where you found them, and stop using up my potions. They can’t be good for you.”

Aziraphale failed to understand that it was physically impossible for snakes to_ put things back _, but Crawly seemed to have taken the hint anyway.

* * *

"Fancy a walk, Crawly?” 

The snake, as usual, said nothing, but allowed Aziraphale to pick him up and let him curl his way around the young warlock’s shoulders, wrapping around his neck once, loosely, as to not dangle. Aziraphale shivered and giggled as he felt Crawly nudging his head into his curls, trying to get into his hat perhaps.

“Crawly please, that tickles.” He gently tugged the snake’s neck so he ceased wiggling and instead nestled into the warm cloth at the crook of Aziraphale’s neck.

Armed with his usual brown leather belt with pouches and his wand securely in one pocket, Aziraphale and Crawly left and turned down the dirt road away from the village.

The sun would set in about an hour, but the weather was always nice, courtesy of living in a magical kingdom, it was one of the main reasons mortals still lingered about, taking advantage of the lovely seasons and adapting to the many oddities of having magical beings as neighbors. Aziraphale thought it was charming, humans and witches living together in harmony… their magical ancestors would be rolling in their graves at the mere thought of coexistence.

A breeze blew, threatening Aziraphale’s hat before he brought a hand up to steady it. The wind wasn’t too chilly, but Crawly’s body tightened immeasurably around Aziraphale’s collar, who didn’t comment on it.

“Strawberries are finally in season,” Aziraphale chatted, nudging his head so it brushed along black scales. “Last year I discovered some wild strawberries off this path here, shouldn’t be too long now, hopefully it’s still there.”

Aziraphale walked in comfortable silence, taking in the greenery around him, the quiet away from the hustle and bustle of town miles away. Crawly had relaxed around him, body going slightly limp and his head resting over one shoulder, pointed toward his chest pocket.

“I wish I knew what you were thinking about, dear boy.” Aziraphale sighed quietly, absentmindedly lifting a finger to stroke it down Crawly’s smooth body. “What do snakes think about, I wonder… do you dream? Can you talk to other snakes?”

He tilted his head down as he said this, barely able to catch a brief tilt of Crawly’s head and what might have been an eye roll… if such a thing were possible.

“Can you even understand me?” Aziraphale asked, remembering all the times he conversed with his snake and how rapt the animal’s attention had been. He gave a gasp then, looking down again.

“Are you a familiar?” He asked with wonder. The snake didn’t move.

“I’ve never had one…” Aziraphale’s tone of amazement petered off, looking back to the road ahead. “You know they can come in all sorts of forms, animals or even other witches! Or… so I’ve read.”

As they rounded a corner Aziraphale heard voices, young men by the sounds of it, laughing and causing a ruckus. He felt himself stiffen, Crawly’s head on his shoulder lifting slightly. Internally Aziraphale toyed with the idea of turning around, but didn’t see anyone so assumed the bodies the voices belonged to were in the trees, out of sight. And he wanted those strawberries! So on he went, touching a few fingers to Crawly again.

“Don’t mind me, I just get nervous easily,” he admitted. “Not very good with confrontation, especially with strangers.”

The snake seemed to watch him, head still lifted and looking in his direction.

Aziraphale picked up the pace as he walked past the noises, which were unfortunately getting louder and more clear as a group of three teenagers stumbled out of the woods, one of them swinging a bottle of mead with a wide grin and eyes sparkling with mischief. Eyes that met Aziraphale’s in the dimming sunlight.

“Oi, _ brujo _!” He shouted, pointing at Aziraphale and getting the other boys attention as well.

Despite himself, Aziraphale huffed, but continued walking. 

“Well, that’s quite rude.” 

While most humans lived peacefully with witches and warlocks, there were still some that clung to the old ways and, even knowing witchcraft was alive and well and certainly not evil, they insisted on a cold divide.

“Is he really a witch?” One boy said.

“Of course, lookit that hat and his stupid snake.”

Aziraphale jumped a fraction in his gait as Crawly hissed loudly, baring his fangs. The group had begun to follow Aziraphale.

“Hey, stop we just wanna talk,” said the first one, bottle still loosely dangling from his fingers.

“I don’t mean any trouble. Mind how you go.” Aziraphale spoke quickly behind him, laying one hand over his wand in his pocket.

“C’mon, we just wanna have a bit of fun. We’re about to play a game and need a fourth.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes to himself, keeping pace and not bothering to respond. He understood he looked young, probably around the trifling boys ages, but he’d been alive for decades longer than them.

He also resisted to hook a finger around Crawly, who’s grip around Aziraphale’s neck was tightening.

Suddenly something struck Aziraphale in the back, causing him to stumble. The sound of glass hitting the ground clued Aziraphale onto the bottle of alcohol the tallest one had been carrying.

“Really now--” biting back the sting of tears, Aziraphale whirled around, holding his wand up. “I will use force if necessary.”

Two of the boys flanked back, nervous. The other one stood his ground, swaying on his feet.

“You don’t scare me, fucking witch.” He spat.

Closing his eyes, Aziraphale muttered an incantation, and his wand spluttered, sparks emitting from the tip. The teen’s eyes widened, betraying his bravado… but then nothing happened.

He laughed. “Are you even a real witch?”

Aziraphale grit his teeth and, without warning, Crawly slipped down from his shoulders onto the ground, racing toward the boy and finally catching him off guard, forcing him to stumble backwards as he advanced on him with a hiss and a threatening strike that shook even Aziraphale.

“Shit, it’s a familiar!”

“Run!”

And the drunken trio turned and ran the opposite direction, kicking up dust as they went.

Aziraphale, pulse pounding in his ears, sunk to the ground, pulling his knees up and resting his head on them. He took a rattling inhale and realized, with a huff of frustration, that he was crying. The hand still clenching his wand opened, letting it fall and uncaring where it rolled.

He felt Crawly’s presence near him, his long body curling around his shoes and up his leg. Aziraphale couldn’t look at him, sniffling, blinking away his tears. He felt the lightest touch on his forehead and peeked up to find that Crawly was flicking his tongue out at him. He laughed softly, without any real emotion to it.

“Oh, Crawly… I’m sorry.” He wiped his face with the sleeve of his tunic. He took off his hat, feeling around the brim and avoiding Crawly again. “I’m not a very good warlock, Crawly.”

The admission made him sigh, slouching in on himself more. Crawly stretched forward, wobbling dangerously in the air until Aziraphale caught him with a smile, letting him use it as a bridge to bring them closer and more eye level.

“I could never get anyone to teach me, growing up. I don’t have a family so I don’t even know how much magical blood is in me… not that it should matter, but even the lower level witches think I’m a lost cause.” He sighed again, looking up at the sky, which was turning into a dark blue.

“Now I’m getting too old to be considered a student, I certainly can’t go to the academy, even if I could afford it…” He trailed off. Crawly seemed to be listening intently, keeping his eyes on Aziraphale. “I’ve always wanted the Red Witch to teach me.” He finished wistfully.

Their eyes met again, and Aziraphale finally felt the sadness ebbing away. He wondered just what kind of snake Crawly was, if he was indeed a familiar. He always managed to set Aziraphale at ease somehow, just being in his company. Aziraphale had come to terms on that first night that Crawly wasn’t an ordinary serpent, not that it bothered him, indeed, it was quite normal to live among magical beings, animal or otherwise. He never thought he’d be so lucky to encounter one himself.

Crawly bumped his nose to Aziraphale’s and the warlock smiled genuinely, showing his teeth.

“You’re sweet, Crawly,” he giggled. “Thank you for saving me, I owe you one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw this is my first dip into good omens fanfiction and witchcraft au so any constructive criticism is greatly appreciated! thank you!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the wait, real life got in the way and I was having trouble settling into the world I accidentally committed to make. A huge thank you to vios_shadow for being so much more into the story than me and helping me figure out what the heck to do in a magical world and basically holding my hand as I (we) built it all. I'm so happy you offered your magical expertise!

Crowley never thought he’d be so lucky as to find himself in the care of a warlock, let alone one with so many books that were just begging to be rifled through. Books on spells. Books on runes. Books on jinxes. Seemingly endless books with secrets to discover. He was never much of a reader, before; a researcher. Crowley had a sort of knack for spells and persuasion that he assumed was just something inherent… though his parents, who were both magical, weren’t _ that _impressive. Still, he never found himself in need of a book, if he had questions Crowley just asked and he always got answers, even if the questions were dodgy and way before he started living in the royal castle. It was a stroke of luck, Crowley always assumed, that he surrounded himself with smart people, with powerful people too, now. Or… then. Or maybe he was just so intimidating and charming that people were always willing to give him what he wanted.

He wasn’t sure yet what he was searching for, not really. Something about curses. Or something about transformation. Or maybe something about counter magic. Maybe something about snakes? Crowley was sure somewhere amongst all these books and dust laid the answer to his predicament, but Aziraphale kept chastising him to stop. He would show Crowley the spine of a book that had been knocked to the floor and how it was damaged. If Crowley had eyebrows he would cock one, simple damages like a torn page or dented cover were easy wish-away spells. So of course Crowley didn’t stop, he just needed to be more careful slipping along the warlock’s shelves at night, sweeping his tail to and fro in hopes of erasing his belly trail along the old, creaky shelves. But that only disturbed the objects further, whoops. This wasn’t the first time he wished his serpentine form was smaller.

But if he were smaller, Crowley wouldn’t have as much fun as he did wrapping himself around anything remotely warm, feeling his entire body curl around an object, a rock, his dinner… or Aziraphale.

Crowley hadn’t found a solution to his curse yet, he’d read so much in the past few weeks, his slitted pupils struggling to decipher tiny words, emitting tiny headaches that lasted hours. He’d sniffed so many plants, flowers, and liquids he feared his tongue was going to fall out, but the constant presence of Aziraphale set him at ease. Finding a cure suddenly wasn’t as urgent as Crowley thought. He’d gotten too used to listening to the young warlock talk, his voice always prim and polite and soft, like Crowley was a dear friend. Aziraphale told him stories, vented about a recipe he couldn’t get right, or, more recently, began reading out loud to him. He’d, embarrassingly so-- but no one would ever know anyway-- had enjoyed the little pets Aziraphale would give him, stroking gentle fingers down his scales, starting at the top of his head and down mid length. It didn’t necessarily feel good, didn’t make him arch like a cat, kind of felt like someone dragging their fingers down his arm, when he used to have them. But the warmth, the touch itself, from Aziraphale, was comforting and calming.

He wished he could help Aziraphale with his cooking, Crowley would stretch phantom fingers and imagine holding a cabbage or slab of meat. He was never much of a chef before, but he could use a knife and measure out spices and whatever kitchen work Aziraphale could send him off to do. When listening to Aziraphale go on about the trader from the market or his sometimes doting neighbor, Crowley wished he could communicate back, resting his snake chin on Aziraphale’s arm or chair cushion and thinking of telling him about his youth, the young heir to the throne, or the mischief he still liked to get up to, even as a full grown warlock. 

And Aziraphale was always so _ warm _. Crowley put it off at first, the urge to wrap himself around Aziraphale in any way he could get away with. Starting slow around his arm for a quick transfer to and from the garden, or around the small house. Days had gone by and Crowley got more bold, noticing with gratitude how Aziraphale became more and more comfortable around him, trusting. It was Aziraphale’s idea first to let Crowley drape around his shoulders and after that Crowley was addicted.

Wrapped around Aziraphale, even if it was just his shoulders, reminded him of his old bed. When Aziraphale was sitting in front of the fire, reading and still, Crowley curled under his hood and nose dipping into his breast pocket. Aziraphale was comfortable, carrying scents of tea and woods, that lingering smell he remembered from the first night Aziraphale slept and Crowley had watched him. Letting himself drift off in the warlock’s pocket, he dreamed of being curled up under blankets. Thick, heavy quilts with beautiful hand-stitched designs smothering him in the best of ways, lazily sprawled atop silk sheets that were always fun to slip around on while letting his long hair loose and free cover his face.

In that dream, in that memory, Crowley didn’t have to think about work, politics, peace or war. He just slept and let the darkness wash over him, uncaring about what the daylight would bring and reveling in the quiet solitude of his bedchamber. Sometimes, just sometimes, Crowley would cast a thought at the door to his room to not be disturbed. It was lazy and foolish, especially fresh into an era of peace, but Crowley had always been a bit of a laze.

Until he had to wake up and face reality, the command to join a handful of soldiers to visit another kingdom so far away Crowley had to pack provisions and ride a goddamn horse instead of his broomstick. Gods he hated traveling by horse, he never got used to riding and it never felt good on his thighs and buttocks the next day. Traveling by horse, on land, was more risky, given the civil war that had just passed less than 50 years ago, but no one was worried. The kingdom of Eshcott, named after the first witch to colonize the area, was famous for its peace negotiations and unique family… The Dowling family, who was looking for a suitor for their young prince to marry and continue the reign. And visits like this, kingdom to kingdom, were always more well received in the traditional sense with an ambassador on horseback.

Because Eschott was the only openly witch and warlock inhabited kingdom, run by a witch and a mortal man, soon to be passed down and ruled by a half breed. They had negotiated the end to the witch hunts and combined a powerful witch and human family.

It should have been an easy 6-day ride without any trouble, but in the middle of the night, one day into their travel, Crowley snuck off to be alone, like an idiot. Crowley hadn’t liked his traveling companions, they wanted to know about him and talk to him, not with him, and it had been such a bore. Just being in their presence was exhausting, listening to their traveling songs and asking Crowley to recount fights he’d had that had been hyped up by young witches. 

The cool night had been quiet and comforting, a quick reprieve away from his snoring colleagues was all Crowley wanted. But he’d happened upon an old witch, judging by her superior aura, she must’ve been centuries old. And she hadn’t much cared for Crowley’s haughty attitude and pretty way he spoke.

_ “You think you’re better than me, Red Witch?” She sneered, standing tall and proud, her brown curls wild and tangled. _

_ Crowley had made a noise of contempt, waving a hand at her heavy olive green cloak, color noticeable in the firelight Crowley had conjured in his palm. _

_ “I don’t know you, woman,” he sneered. “I’m just passing through, I don’t mean harm.” _

_ The woman’s brows shot high into her hairline. _

_ “You really believe that? No harm?” Her voice was high and her smile was crooked. “You’re disturbing the very air with every breath you take, tainting the plants and disturbing the stillness of the night with your arrogance and pride. Bah!” _

_ She took a step forward and Crowley didn’t flinch. He had many admirers in the kingdom, in the local towns but he was also very used to jealousy, to condemnation. _

_ “Going to say something nice now? Going to convince me to turn and walk away? It might work. I’ve heard you’re very convincing. Go on, command me to do something, anything, let’s see if you can penetrate me.” _

_ Crowley raised an eyebrow, a moment of silence passed between them. She was baiting him, but he didn’t know what for. _

_ Instead he took a deep breath, a familiar magical urge deep in his bones heightening and coming forth out his mouth. _

_ “I’m returning to camp, and you won’t follow me.” _

_ The witch smiled so wide her yellow teeth shown. _

Crowley woke with a start, his body tensing and his head jumping from Aziraphale’s pocket.

“Dear boy, what’s wrong?”

Aziraphale’s voice, soft and soothing brushed along the side of his head. The heat of his breath settled Crowley, erasing the memory of that night.

_ Sorry _, Crowley wanted to say, even opened his mouth to do so, but no sound came out. He was a snake. Right.

Aziraphale smiled. “Was that a yawn? Goodness, you’re adorable.”

Crowley turned to face Aziraphale properly, giving him a look he was sure didn’t translate. He got a pat on the neck for his effort and slipped over the front of Aziraphale’s chest, nuzzling his way past the cream colored collar and ducking his head inside, ignoring the warlock’s whine of protest.

“My dear, you are always so cold…” But Aziraphale didn’t remove him, so Crowley remained, reveling in the gorgeous heat of Aziraphale’s skin just underneath his shirt. This was the first time he’d felt Aziraphale’s skin against his scales, soft and pliant to Crowley’s nudges. He didn’t go any further than the top buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt, but it was still somehow soft enough to drift back into sleep.

Presently, Crowley thinks about what Aziraphale had said the entire walk home, after the incident with the boys. How he isn’t a good warlock, and how his wand spluttered. He had noticed that Aziraphale preferred to do most things by hand… cleaning up, making tea, tending to his garden. A lot of mundane tasks that Crowley remembers always waving away with a thought, not necessarily being lazy just… practical (Crowley had been called lazy in the past though, mostly by his mother). Many witches and warlocks abused simple spells and enchantments to help along in their day to day lives, it wasn’t uncommon. Crowley figured Aziraphale liked being a busy body. But now he wonders… does he perform in a near constant magic-less lifestyle by circumstance? Enchanting say, a broom to sweep for you was considered low level magic that even children could figure out early on.

Crowley is so lost in thought that he doesn’t slither off Aziraphale’s shoulders when they get inside, and the young warlock doesn’t seem to mind, kicking off his boots and dabbing at his dirty face with a wet cloth rather than splashing water over his skin, most likely for Crowley’s sake.

Aziraphale was always so conscious of Crowley, like he was more than just a snake that hung around too often. He always gave Crowley his space, when needed. Always spoke to him like a person, never stepped on him, and never picked him up without permission, which Crowley was grateful for. Crowley was used to people respecting him, being intimidated by him, but never… caring for him. Worried for him, wondering about him. If Aziraphale thought he was a familiar, it would be curious. Familiars were the main creatures hunted during the last witch and human conflict, and so they were a rare breed, going extinct. Crowley had seen it himself, witches and warlocks finding unbound familiars tripping over themselves to get the creature to bond with them. Familiars were powerful, wild, the boys on the road had every right to be terrified of Crowley. And the more powerful a familiar, the better influence it would have on their bonded witch or warlock. Crowley had heard of corrupt witches trying to convince familiar’s to break the bond with their current witch to be with them. It was mad.

On the other hand, some witches treated their familiar’s like pets, especially the ones who presented in a domestic form, like a cat, dog or bird. Aziraphale… either didn’t understand the hype surrounding familiars, or respected them enough to treat Crowley like an equal.

Aziraphale went into the kitchen, picking up a strawberry (they had managed to continue their original goal) and took a small bite, moving it to Crowley who snapped out of his thoughts momentarily, flicking his tongue out and smelling the tart yet sweet flavor of it. _ Goodness _he missed eating real food. Crowley hardly ate as a person, just a couple nibbles here and there for sustenance; food was never something that interested him. His snake stomach recoiled at the small, red fruit but his brain ached to gobble it up. He never let it show, wanting to appear dark and brooding whenever he could, but Crowley had a horrible sweet tooth, and fruit was one of his weaknesses.

“What’s on your mind, Crawly?” Aziraphale asked, popping the rest of the berry in his mouth when Crowley turned his nose up at it.

_ So much _… Crowley thought, looking out the window and tensing as he saw a carriage pull up in front of the little house. Aziraphale caught the motion too, eyes widening in surprise. They both watched as the stagecoach hopped down and opened the small door to let out a man, a warlock to be sure, dressed in white, blue and gold. He descended from the elaborate wagon and, after saying something to the driver, headed to the short path to Aziraphale’s front door.

Crowley recognised him immediately.

_ Gabriel?! _

He coiled tighter around Aziraphale’s neck just as he tried pulling Crowley off of him.

“Crawly, please, you’ll startle the man.”

Crowley let himself be pulled off and set upon the desk, flicking his tongue angrily and carefully watching as Aziraphale puttered to the door just as a knock was heard.

“Gabriel?” 

Crowley’s tongue stilled in his mouth. _ How do you two know each other? _

Gabriel _ tsk’d _, coming in all the way without being asked. Aziraphale stepped aside and shut the door behind them.

Crowley slithered behind a stack of books and spied.

“Why are you still living here, Aziraphale? You know I don’t mind putting you up in the city.”

“Ah…” Aziraphale smiled nervously, pulling some hair behind his ear. “I like it here. I like being alone.”

Gabriel snorted, looking around the small space, wooden walls, creaky wood floor, low ceiling. “I don’t believe that for a second.” He ducked under some mint hanging to dry and leaned into a bookshelf, taking out a thick tome and thumbing the pages quickly.

“Um, why are you here, Gabriel?” Aziraphale took a hesitant step forward as Gabriel turned to face him, book still in his hand.

“Do I need a reason to visit an old friend?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, Crowley barely caught it. “It’s been 20 years.”

Crowley's jaw dropped.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vios_shadow continues to be the real MVP of this story. You can thank her for this chapter, tearing it down and helping me rebuild it, and constantly being on my ass about updates haha. 
> 
> Thanks so much for continuing to read! Ah! I don't know what I'm doing but I'm taking you all down with me lol [be my friend on tumblr](http://www.valeriianz.tumblr.com/) where I continue to stumble around writing for these idiots :)

_ “C’mon, ‘Zira! Slow poke!” _

_ “You’re cheating!” Aziraphale squealed, his grip tight on his broomstick, swallowing thickly and trying not to look down. _

_ Michael turned around just to fly in a circle around Aziraphale, teasing him.  _

_ “Stop! You’ll make me fall!” _

_ “Warlocks don’t fall off their broomsticks, ‘Zira.” Michael rolled their eyes obviously.  _

_ “Aw, leave ‘im alone,” Gabriel slowed down to keep up with the other two. “Not Aziraphale’s fault he’s a half breed!” _

_ The two kids laughed and Aziraphale’s ears burned.  _

_ “I’m not a half breed!” He leaned forward, tried focusing with all his might to pass his stupid friends but only managed to make his broomstick wobble dangerously, forcing Aziraphale’s hands to find better purchase on the slim handle. _

_ “Half breed, half breed!” Michael and Gabriel sang, giggling, before zooming on ahead. _

Aziraphale busied himself with putting on a kettle, listening to Gabriel pace the room behind him, the click of his shiny shoes muffled as he stopped on the rug in front of the mantel.

“Don’t bother, won’t be here long.”

Aziraphale sighed, dropping the kettle of water onto the counter carelessly. He saw Crawly hiding behind the books and plants give a start at the loud contact.

He reached out a finger to touch him apologetically, but he slithered further away, behind the sink and down the wall. Aziraphale frowned.

“This place is a mess, how do you live like this?”

Aziraphale turned around in a huff just as Gabriel dragged his finger along the mantel top, inspecting the dust collected there, rubbing it between his thumb and pointer finger. Before Aziraphale could ask what he was doing, Gabriel mumbled something under his breath, casting his gaze up and around and the dust vanished, not just from the top of the mantel, but along the walls, books, and curtains. All the dust in the small house disappeared without a sound, an unexplained shift in the air was the only evidence that something had happened… and the slight shine everything emitted now.

Aziraphale bit back a retort to that, gritting his teeth and ignoring the smug smile Gabriel shot him.

“Could you tell me why you’re really here?”

Gabriel calling him an “old friend” annoyed Aziraphale, and he let it show. He was usually more proper, professional, especially around someone with as much authority as Gabriel, who was on the royal court. The history Gabriel and Aziraphale shared, however, never called for sophistication, professionalism. Maybe it was silly to hold onto the past, but even as children the two were never that close, and Gabriel knew that.

The older warlock shrugged, clasping his hands in front of him.

“Things are changing,” Gabriel started, his violet eyes boring into Aziraphale’s blue. “The kingdom is taking a turn for the better, and soon I’ll be appointed as high sorcerer for the king and queen.”

Aziraphale blinked, he heard a faint rustle behind him.

“What about Cro- the Red Witch?”

Gabriel chuckled like it was obvious. 

“He’s been gone for over two months now. Disappeared during a trip to our human neighboring kingdom.” Gabriel’s brow furled. “I thought this was common knowledge. Anyway, we’ve searched high and low and there’s not a trace of him. It shouldn’t be this hard finding a warlock of his… standing.” Gabriel spoke the word like it offended him. “But we have to face reality. We can’t expect Crowley to just show up, the kingdom needs a high sorcerer, and I’ve been making a pretty convincing argument for myself.”

“Oh…” Aziraphale crossed his arms and looked down at the floor. “There’s really nothing to be done? You’re going to just… leave him for dead?”

Gabriel sighed, his head rolling back slightly. “No one’s seen or heard from Crowley since he vanished--”

“Well maybe you’re not looking hard enough!”

Aziraphale didn’t mean to snap. He looked at the floor again.

_ “Aziraphale, you’re going to get into trouble if you keep doing this.” _

_ “Well no one else is looking for him, so I’m going to do it!” _

_ Gabriel groaned, following after Aziraphale at a snail’s pace. “That’s because he wanted to leave.” _

_ “You don’t know that!” Aziraphale turned around, his curly golden locks sticking up, tangled in leaves and tree bark. He held his torn hat in his hand, the other gripping his wand. “You don’t know anything! He-- Raphael takes care of me, he raised me. He wouldn’t leave me!” _

_ Gabriel brought his lips in, frowning before sighing in defeat, pushing away stray black hair that fell from his short ponytail. He took in Aziraphale, recognizing the dirty booths that used to belong to Michael, frayed tunic that fit Gabriel once, and a gullible, soft face. Softer than any witch or warlock he’d ever seen. Aziraphale looked weak, sad, downright human. _

_ “Fine, but I’m coming with you.” _

Gabriel watched Aziraphale as the tension in the room came down, for once understanding where Aziraphale was coming from, sharing the same memory.

“Look,” Gabriel crossed the distance between them, setting jeweled hands upon Aziraphale’s shoulders. “This is hard for me too. No one wants to admit the most powerful warlock in the kingdom was defeated. But it’s the truth. He’s gone and we need a new sorcerer.”

Aziraphale made a disbelieving snort. “Please, you’ve been coveting the position of high sorcerer since we were kids.”

Gabriel sighed again, rolling his eyes to the ceiling and slipping his hands from Aziraphale.

“In any case, I came to inform you that I plan on implementing new laws once I’ve secured the position. The last war is still too fresh and the disappearance of Crowley has only amplified people’s fear; we need stricter mandates and regulations protecting our kind.”

Aziraphale peeked up at Gabriel. His fluffy white collar, his ostentatious blue robe, and the rings on his fingers. 

“ _ Our _ kind?”

Gabriel motioned between the two of them. “Warlocks. And witches, all magical beings, including you.”

Aziraphale huffed, turning away from Gabriel. “So glad I was an afterthought.”

“We maintain peace and harmony in  _ these  _ lands--” here Gabriel stopped to wave his arm in a small arc “--between humans and witches, but it’s difficult. The royal city is a very safe place, not like the lands nearly beyond our king’s jurisdiction. I mean honestly, it look hours to get here…”

Aziraphale turned around, leaning back against his desk.

“You want me to move to the city?”

Gabriel’s face scrunched up and waved his hand in a back and forth motion. 

“At least in one of the surrounding towns. We want our kind to be where it’s safe.”

“I can take care of myself just fine, thank you very much.” Aziraphale glared, crossing his arms. “And I like it here, it’s quiet, and I inherited this house… I wouldn’t be able to afford a move into the city--”

“You wouldn’t have to worry about funds, Aziraphale.”

“Or fitting in, I expect.” Aziraphale muttered, fidgeting with a loose thread on his shirt.

Gabriel walked up to Aziraphale, patting him on the shoulder. 

“Time’s are changing, lots of half breeds populate the towns now. You’d fit in fine.”

Aziraphale smacked Gabriel’s hand away, staring at him angrily. 

A silence settled between them. Around the time when the war between humans and witch kind began, the term “half breed” was created and carried a nasty stigma, more so than it does now. Humans socializing with witches, fraternizing with them,  _ being  _ with them, was more than just frowned upon by humans, it was almost a betrayal. That’s not to say witches and warlocks weren't disgusted as well, distrust built on both sides, stewing for years. At one point, many humans accused witches of casting spells over humans to fall in love with them, and that any human who loved a witch was obviously hypnotised or cursed. Of course half human, half witch babies were born and the humans were scared, and witches were distrusting, thus the term “half breed” became an insult.

The term had lost some of it’s sectarian sting decades ago, once their pure blood princess married a human man from a far away kingdom and officially ending the war. Peace had indeed begun to grow and humans and witches were coexisting, living together without trouble.

Back in their youth, Gabriel and Michael would tease Aziraphale, call him a half breed, though spitting that phrase out at such a young age, the boys probably didn’t understand the full weight to it, only knew how much it upset Aziraphale. The phrase had disturbed Aziraphale because, thanks to his guardian, he  _ did  _ know how awful being called a “half breed” was. Aziraphale didn’t have a family, didn’t know who his mom or dad were. And so, by circumstance, didn’t really know who he was.

He was a warlock, that much Aziraphale was certain of himself. He aged like a warlock, could handle a wand, could ride a broom, could speak incantations… whether they worked or not was another matter entirely. Aziraphale liked to blame his old guardian, Raphael for that. He couldn’t remember much of him, but recalled how he never taught Aziraphale anything, told him there was no point... just took him in and kept him safe. Aziraphale figured he was just a paranoid old man.

Aziraphale didn’t want to hear the phrase “half breed” coming from Gabriel’s mouth. Because when it did, it carried a prejudicial weight. They weren’t kids anymore, Gabriel should understand that.

Gabriel lingered in front of Aziraphale, standing over him. Aziraphale felt himself shrinking back, taking a step back and stumbling with it. Gabriel reached out and put a hand to Aziraphale’s arm, squeezing with what, to any onlooker, might’ve been something reassuring, but it only made Aziraphale recoil further.

“Well, I’ll be in touch.” Gabriel finally said, moving back to the front door, which opened on it’s own. He turned slightly to face Aziraphale. 

“This was good, catching up.” He nodded to himself and left, the door predictably shutting behind him.

Aziraphale let out a breath into the now silent room, listening to the wheels of the carriage roll, bump, and click along until all Aziraphale heard was a bird tweeting outside.

He turned, looking out the window for quite some time, getting lost in thought, when a sound like rusting papers and then the telltale sound of books hitting the floor in a clatter made Aziraphale’s head whirl around…

… Just in time to see Crawly fall as well, landing on the floor in an undignified heap amongst the papers and books and-- Aziraphale moaned despairingly-- an upturned ink bottle.

“What are you doing, you ridiculous serpent?” He began marching towards the mess before slowing down and watching Crawly writhe along the floor, righting himself and slithering along the spilling ink, leaving a black trail heading towards a blank piece of paper.

“Really now, you’re making a mess.”

Crawly got to the paper just as Aziraphale made to snatch it up, but changed his mind in an instant as Crawly reared his head and hissed loudly at him.

Aziraphale’s back went ramrod straight.

“Goodness Crawly, what ever has gotten into you?”

Crawly dipped his head and nudged his snout along the page, dotting it with ink blots.

Aziraphale ran a hand through his hair, resolved to do nothing but watch and wait until the snake tired himself out.

Which, after some more wriggling and inky transfers all over Aziraphale’s floor and scattered notes, did Crawley eventually stop, visibly breathing hard, his thick scales expanding and deflating in a way Aziraphale hadn’t seen before.

The warlock made a mental note to look into odd snake behavior later.

Aziraphale crouched down, bending his knees and balancing on his feet to be closer to Crawly, now covered nearly head to tail in black ink.

The visit from Gabriel vanished as Aziraphale took in his snake, worry replacing everything else. Crawly had gone still, his head touching the floor as if too exhausted to hold it up, or, in a human way, giving up on something.

“Dear boy, look at the state of you.” Aziraphale said as he slowly, carefully, brought a hand out, touching a finger to black scales and coming back ink stained.

“You’ll need a bath, before the ink dries,” Aziraphale stood, making his way to the kitchen sink. “Heaven knows what that’ll do to you body, ink stuck in between your scales…”

He heard a rustle as he busied himself with emptying out his sink. Turning around, Aziraphale found Crawly gone from the scene of the crime, though a thick black trail indicated where the serpent had slithered off to.

Aziraphale managed to keep in a groan of misery at the additional mess to his floor, his frustration coming out instead as a light stomp of his foot.

“Crawly!”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A plot is forming! Can you friggin believe...
> 
> Endless thanks to vios_shadow as per usual for beta-ing this chapter for me :)

_ Stupid Aziraphale! _ Crowley wiggled his tummy on the floor, rubbing off the ink that was quickly drying to his scales.  _ Why can’t he understand me? _

Crowley stopped his movements as he heard the warlock’s heavy footsteps on the floor, walking around the shelf he was hiding under and opening a door with an obnoxiously loud creak.

He spied from his vantage point on the floor as Aziraphale brought out a bucket and mop, sighing as he took both back into the kitchen.

Crowley sat and listened to the sounds of water running and the distinct scent of vinegar fill the room.

Crowley’s tongue flicked out like it had a mind of its own, mimicking his racing thoughts, or turning into a nervous habit. He could still smell Gabriel’s awful, expensive perfume. His head swam with,  _ why can’t you just magic away the ink from the floor, from me!  _ Were quickly rationalized by,  _ Gabriel said he was… a half breed, and Aziraphale didn’t correct him. _

Being half witch half human didn’t mean you were incapable of magic… it usually meant you’d have to work a little harder to manifest magic and control it. But magic in half beings was different from person to person. Magic in a person born from a human was like a personality trait, it was never prominent, just a part of you. Some halflings had no magical ability because they flat out didn’t inherit it, or chose to ignore it, live as humans.

Halflings were still new in terms of studies, all Crowley knew from them was the Dowling’s son he taught privately, Warlock (or, Lock, as everyone knew him.  _ Warlock the warlock, what had the king been thinking _ ). Lock was alright at magic, decent enough. He was a little chaotic, but what 11 year-old isn’t?

The idea that Aziraphale was half human made sense, but also puzzled Crowley. Was Aziraphale never taught proper magic? Was that why he was so bad at it? Was he raised human? Crowley figuratively rolled his eyes at the picture of a young Gabriel taking pity on Aziraphale, trying to teach him magic but only using that as leverage to show off or tease him.

_ Fucking Gabriel _ , Crowley’s train of thought abuptly switched tracks. He couldn’t believe Aziraphale and him… what, grew up together? What gave him the right to talk down to Aziraphale? To call him a  _ half breed _ . Didn’t he know how generous and kind Aziraphale was? Crowley heard himself starting to hiss and reigned it in.

Gabriel was always the worst in the castle, strutting around like he owned the place, like he was in a higher position than Crowley. During important meetings he would talk over Crowley or question Crowley’s experience and incompetence with the kingdom’s population, how Crowley never left the security of the city walls unless he had to and yeah  _ maybe  _ that part was true… did that make Crowley a bad person? At least he didn’t put people down, puff his chest out and talk about himself like he was just  _ so  _ interesting, like every word he spoke held great weight and importance. Gabriel was an egotistical asshole and the idea of him and Aziraphale being friends made something boil inside Crowley.

At least Aziraphale seemed to understand, in that unique way he has. Crowley had never heard him so… snippy. It was actually pretty impressive, standing up to Chamberlain Gabriel, who definitely didn’t deserve Aziraphale’s friendship, let alone patience.

_ You don’t even know how perfect Aziraphale is, _ Crowley hissed in the confines of his own brain. He’d only known Aziraphale a few weeks and he already felt comfortable in his presence, protected even.

_ He saved me when anyone else would have just walked on by… _ Crowley remembered slithering back into the royal city and was met immediately with the danger of being trampled. People shrieked at him and those who weren’t afraid of him were instead annoyed by him, scooting him along or shooing him away, allowing the stray cats to chase him. He remembered getting as far as the castle, slipping through the royal gates and looking for anyone who might miraculously recognize him.

All he had been met with was guards detouring his path roughly and then, of course, Gabriel skulking around the grounds and muttering something about “vile creature” and magicing him into unfamiliar woods, where he remained, lost, until Aziraphale found him.

Crowley curled his body closer together, tucking his head into a fold. 

_ Aziraphale… he’s kind and warm and sweet. He rescued a random snake like it’s something anyone would do. He’s like an angel. _

Crowley listened to the sounds of Aziraphale now on his hands and knees scrubbing the floor with bristles, huffing softly as he worked.

Crowley almost felt guilty but stayed in his sticky bundle.  _ An angel who would rather use his hands to clean than cast a simple spell. _

The back and forth vibrations of the scrub brush must’ve lulled Crowley into a brief nap because he suddenly came back into consciousness at the sound of the front door opening and closing.

Uncurling himself, grunting as much as a snake can, he slinked quickly across the freshly scrubbed floor, hissing as the warm vinegar water slipped along his belly and invaded his scent glands.

He was up Aziraphale’s counter and out the window just as a young woman walked off her porch next door, greeting Aziraphale.

"Oh, hello Anathema, how are you?"

“I’m great! Just, ah, you have something on your face. Is that ink?”

As they went on, Crowley continued moving, barely paying attention to their friendly chit chat as he pushed through the dirt and plants, careful to avoid vegetables in case he still had any wet ink that could transfer. What was dried on Crowley was maddening, making his entire body itch like he was shedding. He slowly wrapped himself around a jagged rock, coiling his large body tightly, scratching his scales in an almost relieving manner.

Gabriel had said… people thought Crowley had been defeated? Crowley rolled onto his back, his head nearly falling off the rock before he caught his momentum. 

_ As if I would lose in a magical battle,  _ me _ ! I’ve never lost, and he knows that! Prick. _ Not that anyone had to know that a random witch had literally turned him into a snake and yeah it’d been over two months now and Crowley was no closer to breaking this curse and maybe he was getting a little too comfortable being in this form and maybe he’d be stuck like this forever but where the hell did Gabriel get off saying Crowley had lost?!

Crowley suddenly remembered why Gabriel visited in the first place. He... wanted to take Aziraphale away from here? Why? To be closer? The king’s soldiers and scouts did a fine job keeping the peace and protecting the kingdom, nothing was going on last Crowley knew. Was Gabriel up to something?

“Was that man from the palace? I’d never seen a chariot like that before…” 

Crowley couldn’t see Aziraphale or his neighbor from his position on the ground, surrounded by plants, but she sounded excited, eagerly keeping the conversation flowing naturally. And Aziraphale sounded happy, comfortable, like he’d spoken with this woman dozens of times and they were at least friendly, if not friends. Though, this was the first time Crowley had really seen Aziraphale’s neighbor… sometimes he’d sense her footsteps while he relaxed in the garden, or heard from a distance Aziraphale greet her in passing while Crowley was distracted in books or exploring for a hot spot to nap. But this was the first time Crowley had witnessed Aziraphale actually engage with another person in a friendly, easy manner.

She was going on about who the “gentleman” was that visited when Aziraphale neatly changed the subject to the bucket he needed to clean out, and that piqued her interest enough to insist on helping Aziraphale clean.

“Honestly, I need to get out of the house anyway, Newt is like a spray of water that’s dampening my magical field.”

_ Newt? _ Crowley wondered. _ Like a salamander?  _ He began to move to another rock, grumbling to himself how he’d managed to get dirt stuck to his wet scales.

“Oh, I’m nearly finished.” Crowley could  _ hear  _ Aziraphale’s smile. “But I’d love to have you over for some tea, and Newt as well, if he’d like.”

They parted ways briefly, Aziraphale heading back into his house and if Crowley could laugh he would at Aziraphale’s uncharacteristic shout of misery.

“Crawly!” 

The snake slipped quickly into a better hiding spot just as Aziraphale poked his head out the window. 

“You left another trail on my wet floor! You’re getting a bath, mister. Whether you like it or not!”

A bath actually sounded delightful right about now. Crowley was covered in dirt and ink, he couldn’t deny it any longer. But like hell he was going back into the house while more people visited. Crowley wasn’t sure how convincing he was to come across as a real snake, Aziraphale was explicitly the one Crowley wanted to figure that out. Aziraphale also… didn’t think any less of him when Gabriel said he’d been beaten. Anyone else in the castle, especially those on the royal court or palace guards, or even loyal civilians, would question High Sorcerer Crowley’s authority knowing he was taken out by some random witch. 

Or maybe… it wasn’t the worst thing in the world, being a snake, staying in this body. Aziraphale already thought he was a familiar, why dispute that? Why put doubt into Aziraphale’s heart? Crowley was safe here, alone with his guardian angel, no duties that needed tending to, no Gabriel or Uriel or Michael or any of those royal pricks spreading lies about him, planting distrust in the ears of anyone who would listen.

Footsteps and chatter between Anathema and a young man tickled through Crowley’s drowsy brain as they approached the front door and were allowed in.

Crowley felt himself begin to doze off again, he'd found a warm spot in direct sunlight and let the heat wash over him, thinking of Aziraphale.

Aziraphale was holding him so they were eye level, Crowley felt his tail dangling in the air before curling it around Aziraphale’s arm. Trees surrounded them, earthy greens with golden rays of sunlight streaming through the branches, casting them in a glow. He was dreaming, Crowley realized and looked down, stretching his legs out and watching his own hands grow. His lips turned up, flexing his fingers, digging his nails into his palms. He glanced up and got to see those stunning blue eyes up close as Aziraphale smiled. He took Aziraphale’s hand, which had his wand in it, and held it up, instructing Aziraphale to point it and whispering a spell into his ear, encouraging him along and watching as he cast something, who knew, but it was perfect and Aziraphale thanked him and smiled some more.

Crowley couldn’t hear his voice as he praised Aziraphale. He brought his hand to his throat, feeling the gold rings that used to wrap around his fingers touch his skin, cold and hard. Crowley took a deep breath which squeaked with effort and suddenly Aziraphale was gone, replaced by the ragged witch from that night, surrounded by trees and shadows.

_ “You take your powers for granted,” she spoke slowly, her voice almost musical. “Unaware of the good it could do. You surround yourself with dedicated followers and fans but here’s something everyone in the kingdom is too afraid to tell you: you’re selfish and lazy.” _

_ “You don’t know anything about me.” Crowley tried speaking, his voice a lot more timid than it had been that night. _

_ “I know everything,  _ dear boy _ .” The small part that remembered this was a dream made something flinch in Crowley at that phrase. “I know what has happened and what will happen. I’ve seen your future, the kingdom’s future, and everyone who has come into contact with you. I knew you would be here, and I knew you would challenge me, despite the warning signs that are still fluttering in your head.” _

_ Crowley had swallowed, for the first time in his life nervous. His hand went for his wand, holding it out as if ready to duel. _

_ The witch grinned, her hands coming out empty. _

_ “You would attack a defenseless old witch?” _

_ “Only if you continue this absurdity.” Crowley spoke with an edge, feeling the magic in him bubble and rise up, tipping into his fingertips and through his wand.  _

_ “Oh, it’s not absurd. You know the truth in what I speak, I can feel your shame from here. For the good of the kingdom, you must be taught a lesson, you snake.” _

_ Snake… _

Crowley jumps awake from the sensation of an upward momentum, feeling hands around his body.

“What the-- put me  _ down _ !”

“ _ Whoa _ !”

Crowley thrashes, all elbows and legs until he succeeds in being dropped from a gangly hold back onto the ground.

It’s on landing, which didn’t hurt as much as it should have, that Crowley realizes something monumental just happened.

_ Wait!  _ He shrieks, but no sound comes out. He tries pushing himself up but just writhes in the dirt in his serpentine body.

He looks up and finds a man with short hair cautiously walking backwards away from him, hands up in the air and eyes wide behind his huge glasses.

_ Did… What-- What did you just do?! _

“This is too much witch stuff for me in one day…” The man mutters, leaving his hands in the air as he turns and walks away from Crowley.

_ Get back here! _

Crowley races toward the man, wrapping his upper body around his leg like a whip and causing him to trip and send them both to the ground in a high pitched holler.

Crowley blinks and… blinks again. He can blink! An unconscious laugh tears from Crowley’s throat, startling him. He hadn’t heard his own voice in so long. Another bark of laughter breaks free, then another.

His arms curl tightly around the man’s leg as he laughs uncontrollably, Crowley can feel his fingertips pressing against the cotton of his pants, feel the scratchiness of dirt against his skin, feel his long hair brushing past his shoulders and it all feels  _ amazing _ .

Crowley finally looks up, stifling his manic laughs into giggles. The eyes he’s met with are wide, terrified, skin pale. The man is scared still. His mouth opens, closes. He squeezes his eyes shut and tilts his head up and away from Crowley.

“Please let go of me,” his voice is surprisingly calm. Then he groans miserably. “Oh geez, why does weird stuff keep happening to me.”

Crowley finally has the sense to examine his surroundings, looking around and finding they are mere feet away from Aziraphale’s front steps and dimly aware that he’s stark naked and covered in black ink.

The man is still talking, rambling, and it’s getting louder.

“Shh, shut  _ up _ !” 

The man he’s clinging onto obeys, jaw clicking shut as he looks down at Crowley again.

His mind is racing, Crowley can’t stop blinking and he dares not let go of this man’s leg. Crowley has managed to piece together rather quickly that somehow it’s this person’s doing, intentional of it or not, that Crowley has his body back.

But only if he keeps touching him.

“What the hell are you?” Crowley whispers, awe and a clip of frustration creeping into his voice.

The man groans, clearly uncomfortable and tired of lying on the cold ground. His hands are out again like he wants to push Crowley down but dares not touch him.

“Newt?” The man says his name like he’s unsure if that's the right answer. “What are  _ you _ ?”

Crowley swallows, shivers as a breeze blows by on his bare skin, and speaks.

“We need to go somewhere private.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt and Anathema come over for tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all!  
Sorry for the wait. This fic is now being written by two people.  
I'm hopeful we will have the next few chapters up soon as I have things plotted to chapter 10.  
Thank you for waiting for us, I hope you enjoy.

The smell of vinegar burned at his nose as he got down to scrub at the floor. _Gabriel just cleaned this floor! _Not that Aziraphale had wanted him to. It was not a kindness, to rub it in his face that he couldn’t clean with a word. He had tried, after Raphael had left Aziraphale had tried all the household spells he had seen his guardian do. He had even found a book with the basics, but it always came out wrong. So Aziraphale had learned the human way,_ like my ancestors must have_.

The rasp of the bristles should have been soothing, a repetitive pattern. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. But his knees were starting to hurt, the smell was unpleasant, and much to his frustration it seemed like all he was accomplishing was to spread the ink around. Where there had once been a stygian pool now was a smoky lake surrounding him. Aziraphale looked at the dark water in the bucket, at least that was proof some of the ink was gone. Maybe a mop would help.

It did not. 

Aziraphale gazed out over the film of grey across his floor. At least the ink came up with water, good to know for his next purchase. _When I see that serpent again, he is going to get a stern talking to along with his bath!_

Perhaps it was time to stop for now, he’d empty his water, and go over the floor one last time with a rag to get what he could. 

Aziraphale grabbed the handle of the bucket and carefully held the dripping mop head over it as he walked out his front door. He would not let the ink stain any more of his floor!

The flowers growing in front of his house were not what one would call “healthy.” Shoots clawed up from the cracked earth, with jaundice leaves valiantly struggling to stay attached. _Poor dears, perhaps the water will help._ Aziraphale dumped his water out over them, the deluge crushed a few of the weaker specimens.

“Aziraphale!”

Anathema waved at him as she crossed over to him, not even eyeing the fallen flora strewn across his walkway. Her garden was neat, and bursting with herbs. Years ago she had tried to help Aziraphale get his plants in order, but had given up. She told him at the time she had checked his future, and while Aziraphale had many skills, gardening would never be one.

“Oh, hello Anathema, how are you?” 

“I’m great!” Her lips quirked, she tilted her head to the side looking at his face. 

Aziraphale tilted his head, mimicking her, curious about what was happening.

“Just, ah, you have something on your face. Is that ink?”

That serpent!

“Oh! Uhm, yes, there was a little mishap and my ink was spilled. I was just cleaning it up.”

“Here, let me.” Anathema handed Aziraphale a cloth after a brief whisper to it. 

“Thank you, my dear. Did I get it?”

She pointed to her own face. “A little more, just here.” Aziraphale scrubbed where she indicated.“Yes, that’s all.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale handed back the cloth, which was still as clean as when he had been given it.

“I saw you had a visitor earlier!” Anathema leaned in a little. “Was that man from the palace? I’d never seen a chariot like that before..”

Aziraphale tried to smile, though it came out more as a grimace. “Yes, that was Gabriel, he’s the chamberlain at the palace. He grew up in this village.”

Anathema gasped. “I had no idea! Which house?” 

Aziraphale pointed just down the lane, “the one with the pearl colored door.”

“Have you ever been to the city? To the palace?”

Aziraphale had been to the city once, before Gabriel had finished his schooling there. He had visited the great academy they had in the capital to see Gabriel and Michael. Aziraphale had hoped he could go with them, but his first spell before the admissions council had been his last. Gabriel still liked to tease him about the burn marks on the floor. 

“Yes, I have been to the city, it’s where I first learned about the ink makers that I usually buy from.” Aziraphale held up the empty bucket which now, distressingly, had a dark black line where the water level had been. “I suppose I’ll need to place an order sooner now.” Aziraphale chuckled and took a step back, “I should probably clean this out, the ink already got everywhere, no need spreading it around the house.”

“Do you need help? I know some spells that might do the trick.”

“No, thank you. I’m sure I can manage.” Aziraphale says with a tight smile, stabbing his mop at the ground, breaking the brittle stems of a few of the survivors from the mop water.

“No, really! I’d be happy to help. I read about a new spell that is supposed to get out even the most difficult stains.”

“I have most of it up now, dear girl.”

“Honestly, I need to get out of the house anyway, Newt is like a spray of water that’s dampening my magical field.”

Aziraphale smiled, she may grumble about the human’s anti-magic properties but she did love him. No witch that didn’t love Newt would put up with living with someone who’s presence alone could render any spell null.

“Oh, I’m nearly finished. But I’d love to have you over for some tea, and Newt as well, if he’d like.”

With a nod Anathema went to go and get Newt and Aziraphale headed back into the house to finish his cleaning and put the kettle on. Or that was the plan, before he saw the serpentine swath of dark ink cutting across his somewhat clean floor, up over his counters, and out the window.

“Crawly!”

Aziraphale stuck his head out the window just in time to see the tail of the culprit slip into a particularly dense tangle of weeds.

“You left another trail on my wet floor! You’re getting a bath mister. Whether you like it or not!”

It did not escape Aziraphale’s notice that several of the rocks and stones in his yard now bore black smudges. The pattern of the smudges suggested they were from Crawly’s scratching with them. _Serves him right, the poor dear_.

* * *

The kettle was whistling and the ink was mostly off the counters (the floor being given up for a lost cause) when Anathema and Newt came over.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to try casting a cleaning spell together?” Was Anathema’s first question on seeing his gray floors with waths of black snake tracks.

Aziraphale sighed. “I suppose that would be best. After tea.”

Casting with a partner wasn’t unpleasant, or at least casting with Anathema wasn’t, no one else had ever offered, however Aziraphale often wondered how much of the spell was him. No spell they had ever cast together had backfired, or fizzled, unlike his solo casting. He could tell some of his magic was used, but he suspected that Anathema was mostly humoring him. Doing the heavy lifting. For her part Anathema insisted that spells they did together were always stronger, even compared to other tandem casts she’d shared with other witches. She called him her “favorite cast partner.” It felt like something someone might say to a child, though he knew it wasn’t her intent. 

“Hi Aziraphale.” Said Newt. “I brought over some raspberry scones I made this morning.”

Aziraphale beamed at him. “Very thoughtful, dear boy.”

“I saw in this morning’s read for Newt that he was supposed to meet someone special today. When I saw the chariot, I thought that it would be your friend. But he wouldn’t leave the kitchen while his scones were baking and then the chariot left.” Anathema was frowning a little. “I was so sure about this reading.”

“Well, there is still plenty of day left, my dear, he may meet someone yet.”

Anathema had a bit of a strange reputation in the town. The Device family had once produced a supposedly accurate seer, and the family had adopted that as their identity. Divination was widely considered a “psudo-magic” and many looked down on Anathema for her pursuit of it. Aziraphale found the idea fascinating, and kept an open mind towards it.

Though how she expected to ever read Newt when all other magic failed on him was a mystery.

“What did your friend visit you about?” Newt was mixing in his sugar as he asked this, glancing at Aziraphale across the small table. 

Aziraphale sighed, tapping a finger to his cup. “He wanted me to move into the city. He thinks I should live closer.”

“Oh, Aziraphale! You didn’t tell me earlier it was that kind of relationship!”

Aziraphale was confused, then nearly spit his tea when he realized what she was implying. “No! No, no… No. Nothing of the kind. Gabriel is like my brother. No. There is nothing like that between us.”

“Oh... “ Anathema seemed a little let down by his response, but bounced back quickly. “But if you moved to the city like he wants, you might find someone!”

“But my dear, my life is here, my home, my books. I couldn’t leave all this.”

“You can take your books with you! And you would make a new life there!”

Newt scooted forward, adjusting his glasses as he looked over at Aziraphale. “There are more half humans in the city, you would be more welcomed. There are lots of witches and humans living together there.”

“Yes!” Said Anathema, “you might even find a teacher, like you always wanted.”

Aziraphale hummed noncommittally, looking down at his reflection in his tea. He had wanted a teacher, and it would be nice to be somewhere with more shops and bakeries. There was that one crepery he had loved so much last time he was there. He sipped his tea. “I’ll think about it.” 

“Ana said he was from the palace, did he have anything to say about the Red Witch? Have they found him yet?”

Aziraphale set his cup down with more force than he meant to.

“Yes, he said they are giving up. They can’t do more to help him so they are giving up.”

Anathema and Newt exchanged looks, they both knew about Raphael. Aziraphale’s guardian had gone missing long before Anathema or Newt moved into the town, but people still talked about it, debating if he left by choice.

Anathema reaches out and touches Aziraphale’s hand.

“We can cast a location spell, after the cleaning spell. You have a map right?” Aziraphale nods. “I’m sure there have been a lot of location spells cast for him, but we can try.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says quietly.

The rest of the tea is strained, and quiet as Anathema and Newt tiptoe around a pain they knew but didn't understand.

“Newt, dear, could you take the dishes to the kitchen while Aziraphale and I get ready for our spells?”

Newt quickly cleans up. 

“Should I, um, go outside?”

“Yes, my love, I think that would be best, that way we can cast without…” She gesticulates with her hands and Newt nods with a silly grin, halfway out the door anyway. “Yes, please.”

“Oh Newt! While you are outside could you look for Crawly? He should be out in the garden, naughty thing, he’s why we have to do this cleaning spell in the first place.”

“Your pet? The, um, the snake you’ve had with you?” Newt looked unsure. “I-I’m sure he doesn’t want me bothering him. Doesn’t even know me, won’t he attack?”

“Nonsense, Crawly is a familiar, he’s as intelligent as you or I, and certainly not my pet! I’m sure he already knows you from seeing you around.”

Newt hesitates at the door, fidgeting with his glasses.

“Please? It will give you something to do while Anathema and I cast our spells, and he really is in need of a bath. If he gets fussy with you just tell him I sent you. He already knows he’s in trouble, so I’m sure he won’t be a bother.”

“I’ll… I’ll try.” 

After the back door closed Anathema turned an apologetic smile to Aziraphale. 

“Please forgive Newt, he didn’t mean to be insulting calling Crawly a ‘pet.’ Familiars are so rare, and humans didn’t really understand them before anyway. I’ll explain to him when we go home.” 

“Thank you, my dear. I wasn’t insulted, though I doubt Crawly would like being thought of as a pet.”

“I still can’t believe you found a real familiar! I’m so jealous! I hope he bonds with you soon.” Anathema takes his arm excitedly.

Aziraphale laughs self deprecatingly. 

“My dear girl, I am lucky to have met him, and it would be an honor to be his witch.” Aziraphale smiled thinking about it. Crawly may be a troublesome creature, always knocking things over, but he is was an interesting companion, and Aziraphale was growing fond of him. He would be lonely when Crawly left. “I’m sure he will want to bond with a real witch. Perhaps you would like to try convincing him to bond with you?” It was like a knife in the heart to suggest, but he was right, Crawly deserved a real witch, someone who would use their bond to do great things.

Anathema looked thoughtful.

“I would love to meet him, but I don’t think that he is interested in anyone else, Aziraphale. You have had him with you for a while and he hasn’t so much as flicked his tongue at another witch as far as I’ve seen.” She smiled and squeezed his arm again. “I think he is seriously considering you as his witch.”

“We’ll see, my dear, it is of course up to him, and I would never pressure him.”

“I think that’s why he’s considering you.” 

Aziraphale smilled. 

The cleaning spell was easy and his floors were once again gleaming.

“Thank you my dear. I’m sure I would have gotten it all up event-”

A sudden burst of shouting from outside interrupted Aziraphale, making him jolt. One of the voices was clearly Newt.

“Er,” Aziraphale turned his head to the open kitchen window. “Should we check on him?”

Anathema waved her hand. “He’s fine, probably just meeting whoever he was supposed to meet today. Have another scone.”

Manic laughter filters through the window. It's a pleasant ring tickling Aziraphale’s ears, even if there is a slight edge of hysteria to it.

“I do hope he is safe, it sounds like he’s met a madman.” Aziraphale is still looking toward the window, nibbling at the scone he now held. They are too far to see anything through the window except the blue sky and the tops of Aziraphale’s weeds climbing up the walls.

“I didn’t see a trip to the human healer… I’m sure it’s fine.” Anathema fiddled with the edge of the table cloth.

They listen more and there is some hushed talking and then nothing.

Anathema grabbed a scone, cutting it in half with determination. “He’s fine.” Her eyes flit between her scone which she was now applying a liberal amount of butter too and the window. “Newt’s a grown man, he can have adventures without my help…” Anathema took a large bite of her scone, still fixing her gaze on the window. “Just last week he was complaining that I am too protective, that hover over him whenever he does anything. So we agreed I’d let him do his own thing.” Her eyes come back down to meet Aziraphale’s, catching the uncertainty in them and giving her pause. Healing magic, like all magic, didn’t work on Newt, if he got hurt no one in town could help him. 

“But just to be sure, maybe I’ll check.” Anathema walked over to the window and stuck her head out. A moment later she pulled back in with a shrug. “He’s all right.” 

Anathema cracked her neck, “alright, let’s get this location spell cast. It will be harder to do without something of the Red Witch’s, but it can still give us a general idea.” 

Aziraphale got his map of the country, while Anathema pulled out what herbs they would need. Then together they worked on the chalk circle that would help focus the spell.

“Aziraphale, that water sign should be fire, I know they are similar. Fire is a little more like a ‘K.’”

Mistakes corrected, they sat across from each other, map between them and Anathema held up her pendulum, letting it drop as Aziraphale placed his hand over hers.

The pendulum hung just over their village, the surrounding world for a hundred miles scrawled out around it. They started chanting together. The herbs flashed as magic consumed them, smoke spiraling up around them, the spell was active.

Except the pendulum didn’t move.

After a moment of silence, Aziraphale quietly spoke up, “I know I’ve never done this spell before, but shouldn’t the pendulum be moving?”

Anathema frowned.

“Yes. But maybe he is out of range. Or maybe a greater magic is blocking us from finding him. You know, Aziraphale, if this were easy he would be home already.”

Aziraphale huffed and tugged the chain, hoping to get the pendulum moving, it didn’t budge. 

“Oh…” Anathema now tried wiggling the chain and watched as the pendulum stubbornly remained locked above their home. “I’ve read about this, it's very rare. Sometimes if it can’t find the target it will lock onto the location of the caster. No one knows why.” She looked up at Aziraphale and smiled. “Our first failed spell together.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I just wish it were for a less important spell.”

Anathema held his hand and smiled sadly at him.

“I know you don’t like to give up on people when they go missing. Too many people in your life have been lost.” She grimaced. “You won’t want to hear this, but maybe Gabriel was right and it’s time to stop looking for the Red Witch. Sometimes… Sometimes people go missing because they want to.”

Indignation rose up in Aziraphale. “You don’t kno-”

“No, I don’t, but if no one in the capital, with all their power could find him, then that means that some powerful magic is shielding him from detection. There aren’t many powerful witches in the world that could block everyone like that.”

“Why did you help me if you thought he didn’t want to be found?”

“Because you are my friend. And I want to help you whenever I can.”

A moment passed between them. Aziraphale hadn’t meant to get his hopes up, but after the failed spell and Anathema’s reasoning, he realized he had let himself believe finding the Red Witch would be this easy. How foolish. He should know by now about how hard it can bee to find missing people. He sighed, pulling himself up from the floor.

“Let’s clean this up. I still have things I must do today.”

The spell was dismissed, ashes swept, and the map neatly folded and returned to its place.

Newt came in, leaving the door open behind him, with a dirty smudge on his face, leaves in his hair, and snags in his clothes as if he had been dragged through a bush. Aziraphale looked him over top to bottom. 

_ Are those ink stains on poor Newt's pants? They certainly are! Oh, that serpent is going to get such a talking-to! Although, maybe he didn't do all of them, some look like hand prints.  _

Aziraphale was regarding these strange prints, after scrubbing the floor he was something of an expert in Crawly tracks, these were different. _What on earth did they get up to out there? _

“Dear boy, you’re a mess!” 

Newt laughed nervously and wouldn’t meet Aziraphale or Anathema’s eyes. “Just… um… exploring your garden.”

“Who were you talking to out there?”

“Talking? Oh! Just… er… Crawly?” 

Anathema gave Newt a suspicious look but said nothing.

“Crawly? Where is that serpent? He and I need to have a talk.” 

Crawly slithered in at that moment, unrepentant, if anything looking quite pleased with himself. Newt noticing him by his feet jumped away and Crawly seemed to roll his eyes. Well, more like he rolled his head since his eyes couldn’t roll. 

“There you are! You’re getting a bath mister!” 

Newt let out a strangled sound and turned a bright red at this comment.

“What’s wrong with you?” Anathema asked.

“Nothing.” Squeaked Newt. “You’re going to give him a bath? Just… what, just letting him soak in some water while you do your chores?”

“Nonsense! I intend to scrub him down and make sure he is clean.”

Newt nodded but said nothing, his eyes wide and focused on the distance, his face an alarming shade of red.

Anathema eyed Newt with curiousity, who has turned his gaze to the ceiling.

“I’d better get him home, maybe a trip to the healer is in order today.” Anathema clapped her hands once in finality.

“Yes, he does look a little ill.” Aziraphale agreed, studying the young human before him, who shuffled back to the door. “Good bye my dear, thank you for stopping by for tea.”

Anathema left with a smile and a wave, dragging a dazed Newt behind her. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Newt get to know each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We couldn't help ourselves and included a scene from MasaoMicchi's Red Witch comics of Aziraphale chopping wood and Crowley absolutely going ga-ga over it.

Crowley dragged the man, Newt, out of sight, into the back of the garden (if you could call the dense mass of foliage a “garden”) where they crouched down behind a short, crumbling wall made of stones. Small rocks and brittle stems poked and bruised Crowley’s feet-- _ feet! _\-- he had those again! He was using them to walk! With his legs which he now also had! Each poke and prod from the ground against his flesh made Crowley suppress a manic laugh, biting the inside of his cheek and ignoring the spluttering protests from behind him.

Crowley studied the man carefully, leaning close to inspect his eyes, following him as he stretched his neck this way and that, pointedly not looking at Crowley.

”Now… What are you?” 

“Um… I-- I told you…” 

A red flush ran up the man’s neck to the top of his ears.

“Newt…” the man finally conceded again. “I’m Newt.”

“You’re a newt?” Crowley’s brows furled, his grip on the poor man’s arm was iron tight. “You’re that book girl’s familiar?”

Newt met Crowley’s eyes briefly before turning toward the sky. “Ah, no. I’m a human, my full name is Newton Pulsifer.” 

A cascade of thoughts flooded Crowley’s brain. He didn’t have time for this and-- _ god dammit why is he so wiggly?! _ Agitated, Crowley tugged on Newton’s wrist sharply, earning him a nervous squeak.

“Hey, look at me when I’m talking! What’s wrong with you?”

Newton’s eyes flicked down and up, squeezing shut again, as if trying to block something out, before opening them again, face redder than Aziraphale’s dying roses.

“You, um… are you aware that you’re naked?”

Crowley looked down at himself automatically. Oh yes, he was naked, gloriously so. Filthy and covered in ink… he’d almost forgotten what his arms and legs looked like, his fingers and toes! Everything was where it should be.

“Are you a puritan? Nakedness is natural, do you not have a penis too?” His eyes darted to the seat of Newton’s pants.

Newton sputtered and Crowley sniggered softly.

“It isn’t proper! You shouldn’t see… other people…” Newt’s eyes look around like he’s contemplating something. “... like that.” He finishes, his free hand struggling to pull at his clothes.

Distracted, Newt manages to yank his arm free and fumble for his belt. Crowley only has a moment to open his mouth before he is a snake again, glaring up at the human from the cold ground. He wraps himself around Newton’s leg and becomes himself again, his hands clawing to the man’s leg.

“Don’t do that!” Crowley watches as Newton manages to loosen his belt enough to pull at his tunic, tugging it up and over his head.

Crowley’s head tilts back, a curious brow raised and a grin spreading over his face.

“What’s this? If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em?”

Newt hesitates long enough to focus a look at Crowley.

“What?”

“You’re taking off your clothes. What, is it more ‘proper’ if you’re also nude?”

Newt, for once, is sporting an expression that’s not mortified. Instead he looks impatient, the red on his cheeks ruins the impact though.

“My tunic,” Newt holds the large cloth out for Crowley. “You need something to wear. I can’t have this discussion while you’re…” he gestures unnecessarily.

Crowley manages an eye roll for Newt’s efforts.

* * *

No sooner had the door closed behind Newt and Anathema than Aziraphale rounded on Crowley, who was coiled innocently in a sun spot on the floor.

“Well! I hope you’re proud of yourself. I promised poor Newt that you wouldn’t put up much of a fuss, and he comes back looking like he lost a fight with a bush!” Aziraphale sounded riled up but his eyes looked more amused, turning away from Crowley to smile at nothing. 

“And don’t think I didn’t notice the ink around his legs!” He turned back,remembering he was supposed to be mad, waving a finger at Crowley. “And the way he jumped away from you? Did you trip him? That was unkind of you, my dear!”

Crowley gave Aziraphale a flat look. He didn’t know if it would translate, but obviously Aziraphale was worried over nothing. And honestly, the situation was quite funny. 

Aziraphale didn’t seem to appreciate the silence, getting himself riled up again. 

“Don’t give me that look, you wily serpent! I can tell you shook the poor boy up. As if he doesn’t have a hard enough time. You really are inconsiderate!” Aziraphale frowned and sighed, pulling a hand through his hair.

“I don’t want you to feel unwelcome, but I do wish you would think of others sometimes.” He took a few steps forward and bent down. “Come now, I’m finished, and I did promise you a bath. Are you ready?”

Crowley darted over and was quickly climbing up to his angel’s shoulders. _ Finally. _He was so damn itchy, the ink had dried completely on his scales, creating a matte texture in patches that were not conducive for slithering about.

Aziraphale stood up and smiled, patting the side of his face.

“Let’s get the fire stoked to heat water for you.” 

As they walked over to the fire place Crowley could see the chalk remains of a magic circle and studied it. Aziraphale seemed to follow his gaze.

“Ah, yes. Anathema and I tried a location spell for the red witch…” Aziraphale looked at the circle for a long moment. “It didn’t work of course.” He said softly. “Foolish to try, really.”

Crowley bumped his face against Aziraphale’s, trying to cheer him. He’d let himself be a little more physical with Aziraphale lately, a little more obvious, now that Aziraphale was convinced he was a familiar. It was nice, being understood, even a little bit. 

“Anathema and Gabriel think he wanted to leave.” Aziraphale’s voice was still soft. “They think it’s time to give up.”

Aziraphale turned from the circle to the fire place, next to which only a single slim fragment of log remained. 

“Oh, I’m sorry my dear, I must have forgotten to bring in more wood this morning.” Aziraphale paused a moment. Crowley watched, fascinated by the way Aziraphale’s thoughts translated on his face so obviously.

“No, I forgot to cut wood last week so there wasn’t any this morning.” Aziraphale tutted at himself. “Remember dear? We went out together and I said I would need to cut some this afternoon?”

Aziraphale went out back, grabbing the ax beside the door on his way. He set Crowley down on a sun drenched stone a safe distance away and began. 

The heat of the rock relaxed Crowley immediately, coiling up for a nap while Aziraphale began his task. He had just begun to feel sleepy, his head resting on his propped up belly. He watched Aziraphale set up the first log onto the chopping block blearily, not expecting to snap out of his drowsy state with a grunt and a loud strike from Aziraphale. The impact startled Crowley enough to poke his head up high, alarmed.

Aziraphale continued, unaware he suddenly held a captive audience. He was silent and solemn, seeming to use the mindless task to focus on his own thoughts.

Crowley knew about chopping wood, of course. He’d never done it himself, it looked easy enough but he knew it took a good amount of strength and stamina. Crowley lowered his head back down to rest on his belly he’d propped up on himself and settled in to watch.

Aziraphale was stronger than he looked. Under that soft padding that made Aziraphale so soft and comfortable for Crowley was muscle. You could see it as he worked, how sure the axe came down, how easily the wood snapped in half. While Aziraphale’s mind was obviously elsewhere, Crowley watched intently, Aziraphale was... mesmerizing. The corded rope of his muscles rising and sinking in waves under his skin as he chopped were downright distracting. The soft grunts and huffs Aziraphale made as he swung down, the strong grip on the handle, how his fluffy hair jostled with every impact, causing a new bead of sweat to trickle down his face… Crowley felt his long body curl tightly underneath him, as if strangling a phantom mouse.

Crowley’s tongue slipped out, tasting the salty sweetness of Aziraphale’s sweat along with the pollen and dirt of the surrounding garden. The sight and smell was almost overwhelming and Crowley felt his body give an involuntary twitch as the final log was snapped in two and Aziraphale let out a sigh of satisfaction, nodding to himself as he gathered the wood into the nearby wheelbarrow and setting the axe aside.

“Right then,” Aziraphale said to himself, wiping his brow with his tunic and getting to work rolling the wheelbarrow out of sight to stock the excess wood into his shed. Crowley continued watching, noticing how Aziraphale moved in the sunlight, how the sweat on his skin seemed to glow, droplets of perspiration down his neck looking more like fresh water for a parched snake.

As he finished up, Crowley managed to calm down, relaxing and letting out a huff of breath himself. 

That was… interesting.

“Sorry about the wait,” Aziraphale arrived to scoop Crowley up. His hands were much more coarse and dry now. Crowley loved it. “I figured I’d stock up.”

_ You won’t hear me complaining, angel. _

It was a slow process, heating up the water and filling the metal tub in the washroom, a new place Crowley hadn’t bothered exploring yet. The cold stone floor was enough to sway his curiosity when he’d first arrived.

After testing the temperature with his hand, Aziraphale took Crowley and gently dipped him into the large tub. Crowley zipped across the water as soon as his belly had touched it. It was hot but not uncomfortably so, and shallow enough to let his tail drag along the bottom.

“Oh, I’m glad it’s not too hot, my dear. Do you like it?”

_ Do I like it? _ Crowley repeated sarcastically, stretching his body along the water, swimming laps around the tub. During his time lost in the woods, Crowley had avoided bodies of water, small or large, out of an irrational fear of something coming up from the depths and taking a bite out of him.

Aziraphale continued kneeling at the side of the tub, crossing his arms over the edge and watching Crowley swim with a soft smile. 

* * *

A newly clothed Crowley and Newt were kneeling now, the former keeping a stiff grip on the human’s wrist. During the awkward dance of pulling a tunic over his head one handed, accepting help from a bumbling, embarrassed human, Crowley had let his mind wander, trying to get his questions in order so he could let Newton back into the house quickly without raising any suspicion. 

“Now, why are you able to break my curse?” Crowley started with.

Newt took a long pause, trying to come up with an answer. It made Crowley antsy.

“Are you working with that witch who cursed me? Is this some kind of blackmail?” He was leaning forward again, his mind getting away from him, becoming suspicious in the man’s silence. “And don’t give me that human garbage again or I’ll turn you into an actual newt.” Crowley menaced over him, his grip on the man’s wrist becoming painful and causing Newt to cry out.

Newt twisted in his grasp and pushed Crowley back as hard as he could and the moment contact was broken Crowley was once again a snake, tangled and trapped in the fabric of the tunic. With a frustrated hiss he blindly lunged forward again only for Newt to scuttle back. He managed to poke his head free and found Newt staring down at him, one hand out defensively and the other on the ground supporting him.

“Firstly,” Newton gasped, his eyes wide. “I _ am _a human. I don’t know who cursed you or anything about blackmail. Second, magic doesn’t work on me, if you haven’t figured that out yet.” He licked his lips nervously, but stood his ground, so to speak. Keeping eye contact. 

“And if you try to threaten me again not only will I never let you touch me, I’ll tell Aziraphale how awful you’ve been to me and he’ll throw you out!”

Crowley remained still, contemplating. There was no reason for Newt to lie to him, Aziraphale obviously knew him and seemed to like him… Crowley could admit he got a little paranoid there. He just had so many questions, so much pent up rage over what had happened to him he couldn’t help but snap as soon as he had a voice again.

After a brief stare down, Crowley relaxed from his striking position and nodded.

Newt, who had been watching him carefully for his next forward lunge, relaxed too and adjusted his glasses. “If you agree to be civil we can start over.”

Crowley nodded again then slithered forward.

Newt shuffled back. “Um…” The bravado Newt just put on seemed to fade. “if... if it isn’t too much trouble, maybe we can try turning you back with my shirt on?”

Crowley gave him an unimpressed look.

“Please?”

After that momentary truce, Crowley and Newt were back to sitting on the ground together. The latter bringing a hand up into his messy hair and scratching his scalp.

“I’m sorry I called you Aziraphale’s pet earlier, I didn’t realize that you were a man. Do all familiars turn into people? Are they all under a curse?”

Crowley wasn’t even aware Newton had called him a “pet,” but appreciated the apology just the same.

“No, familiars aren’t cursed, they are a species.” Crowley sighed, hoping to skip the history lesson and speaking quickly. “I am cursed, yes, but I’m not a familiar. Though I understand the confusion.” 

Newt frowned. “I’m sorry Crawly, Aziraphale said-”

“Aziraphale doesn’t know I’m cursed.” Crowley interrupted him, waving a hand. “I’ve tried communicating, to get his help. It’s part of why he thinks I’m a familiar, I obviously haven’t been acting like a normal snake, so I get why Aziraphale would latch onto the theory of me being something more.” 

Crowley drummed his fingers on his thigh, glad to have Newt’s full attention now. 

“Familiars are intelligent shape shifting beings. They have a magic of their own completely different from the magic a witch uses. We call it ‘wild magic’ because it’s hard to control and predict. This is all written in books by historians and anthropologists, by the way.” Crowley interrupted himself as if to say, you can look all this up.

“Part of that magic is, again, the shapeshifting. Familiars always have a default form, the shape that they rest in, that takes no power to be in. However, familiars can take on the shape of most animals, with varying degrees of success and duration, they can even become humans or witches. Well some of them anyway,” Crowley clicked his tongue and looked up in thought. “Takes a lot of power and is hard to maintain. Most can only do it a few hours, the longest recorded instance was a week.”

Newt nodded along, finally struck silent, absorbing the information, clearly intrigued by it.

“That’s fascinating. I never bothered looking into familiars, what they are or what they can do… it’s not something they covered in school. We, my human friends and family I mean, all figured they were just normal animals, like pets. All the stories about them having powers or transforming were made up by witches to seem more imposing. Stories to scare humans.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “They're nearly gone now, since your lot was scared of them. There’s a lot to learn from our kind, and a lot of misconceptions. Hopefully in time we’ll share the same education and ideology.” He looked down at his fingers latched over Newton’s wrist. It’s strange now, to think why human’s and witches never got along, they weren't that different…

“And my name’s not really Crawly...” Crowley surprised himself, he’d almost forgotten to correct Newton. “Aziraphale gave me that name when he saved me.”

An unconscious grin split across his face, remembering just how Aziraphale had saved him. He was still staring at this hand over Newt’s skin but not really seeing it.

Newt cleared his throat, causing Crowley to look up and meet his eyes again.

A small smile started on Newt’s face, but it vanished before Crowley could know for sure. 

“What is your name then?”

“My name is Crowley,” he smirked. “but you may know me as the Red Witch.”

Newt's jaw dropped in shock, momentarily stunned. Crowley bit down that old surge of pride and confidence he used to feel at his fame. Now was not the time. 

Newt drew breath, ready to ask more questions but Crowley held up his hand. 

“No, it’s my turn. I answered all your questions, now I get my own.” Newton huffed but Crowley ignored him, gathering his thoughts. “You said you are human, but that magic doesn’t work on you. Why?”

Newt frowned and looked down at the ground, tugging at the weeds growing around them. 

“Ah… it’s curious, but the only explanation I can fathom is, generations ago, my family were witch hunters. Up until the recent war, in fact. Can’t speak for my entire family, but I’m not proud.” Newton made a face and shrugged like, _ obviously _.

“Eventually, after many many confrontations with witchcraft, we somehow… developed an immunity to magic.” Newton scrunched his face up. “Well, not everyone. My father isn’t immune, nor was my grandfather, but my uncle is, and I am. No one knows how it really happened, we can only speculate. I have a particularly strong immunity, I can’t even touch a magical item without ruining it forever.”

Crowley flicked his tongue out, unaware he was doing it until Newt leveled him with a strange look. He sighed and leaned back against the crumbling rock wall, thunking his head. If that was true then the human was no use to him.

“I don’t even understand why you are still cursed,” Newt mused. “I’ve never seen a spell bounce back back after I broke it.” 

* * *

Crowley is taken back to the present as he feels Aziraphale’s fingers lift his body from the water gently.

“Pardon me, dear.” Aziraphale had procured a wash cloth, dipping it into the water. “This ink won’t come off by itself.”

Crowley relaxed as he slipped himself slowly through Aziraphale’s hands, allowing the thick cloth to travel down his scales, lifting the ink with little pressure.

“There we go…” Aziraphale hummed, pausing the dip the cloth in the warm water, creating a cloud of dark grey, and lathering it up before starting again.

Once Aziraphale got to the tip of his tail, Crowley circled back, nudging his head in Aziraphale’s palm, hoping there was enough ink for another pass.

Aziraphale chuckled softly, massaging his thumb on the top of Crowley’s head and down his neck before using the washcloth again.

Crowley had a flash of that cloth scrubbing down his back, his real back, pressing harder than this though. Crowley knew now how strong Aziraphale was and lost himself in the day dream of the warlock properly cleaning his back, how maybe his fingers would feel on his skin instead of his scales...

"Anathema thinks I should take Gabriel up on his offer to move to the city."

The quiet murmur broke Crowley out of his wandering imagination. He turned his head slightly to see a watery Aziraphale sigh, eyes lost in thought.

"The city is a fabulous place, obviously, but the thought of living near Gabriel... in his debt…” Aziraphale sighed again, wringing the washcloth out and going for a third pass down Crowley’s body. The gentle splashes of the water echoed in the small room while Aziraphale gathered his thoughts.

_ Oh angel, I'll help you move and show you around the city if that's what you want. No need to rely on Gabriel. _

“I'm afraid he hasn't always been that kind to me. In fact he's been awful, the horrible older brother I never asked for. Once, when we were very young, I had been outside practicing my magic, and Gabrieil came up, asking what I was doing. I was trying to cast a spell to burn without shooting fire from my wand.”

Aziraphale exhaled loudly through his nose.

“After a few more tries, with Gabriel watching, I managed to do it. I was quite proud of myself.” Aziraphale kneaded the cloth gently underneath Crowley’s belly, making the serpent squirm out of his hand.

“Sorry!” Aziraphale apologized at once, thinking he’d hurt Crowley. 

Crowley barely heard him though, wiggling out of the sensation of being tickled. He returned to Aziraphale’s hand, nudging his snout along his palm.

Aziraphale huffed. “Anyway, he encouraged me to show off what I had learned. I tried showing our friends, well, more Gabriel’s friends, what I had learned, and nothing happened. I tried and tried…” He stopped cleaning Crowley abruptly, wringing the cloth out one last time and setting it on the edge of the tub.

“Well, he had tricked me. He was the one who cast the spell, not me. I was so embarrassed. All the boys laughed at me.”

_ Sounds about right. Always been a bully then… _ Crowley thought disdainfully.

He let Aziraphale lift him from the now cool water, setting him on a towel he’d laid on the counter and wrapping him up in it like pastry filling. 

“Knowing Gabriel,” Aziraphale started again, patting Crowley dry. “I doubt he even tried very hard to look for the Red Witch… he’s always coveted the position of high sorcerer, you know?”

_ I’d believe it. _ Crowley thought. _ He’s certainly never been subtle about how much he disapproves of me in the palace. _

Aziraphale was quiet the rest of the evening distracting himself with reading and keeping the fire going for Crowley.

Crowley barely slept that night. He was too anxious over the prospect of finally being in his warlock form again, speaking and being understood by another person… even if that person was Newton Pulsifer. 

He snuck out into the garden before Aziraphale woke and slithered next door to wait in Anathema’s back yard, which had a much more immaculately kept garden filled with herbs and vegetables and fresh, moist soil. Crowley couldn’t even sense any rodents in the hours he waited there, wondering if that was an influence of magic or constant upkeep.

An hour or so after the sun rose, Crowley’s reason for the visit came out the back door, wearing gloves and a hoisting an axe over his shoulder.

_ More wood chopping… _ Crowley moved from the garden, following Newton around the other side of the house to a large stump with broken piles of wood surrounding it in an unorganized mess.

Newt whacked the axe blade down on the stump and first got to work scooping up the left over logs from whenever and carrying armfuls to an overhang against a wall of the house, stacking them neatly.

After three trips Crowley finally got bored and revealed himself, sliding up the stump and waiting, carefully avoiding the sharp blade of the axe.

Newton turned and saw Crowley on the stump, jumping out of his skin with a hollar that amused Crowley more than it should have.

“Holy… gods above.” Newt gasped, a hand clutching his tunic. “You can’t do that.”

_ Do what? Sit and wait _? Crowley thought sarcastically.

“... You are Crowley, right?”

With a sigh that came out as a hiss, Crowley nodded.

Newton looked around. 

“Follow me.”

He led Crowley to the pile of wood he’d organized, taking a seat on one and taking his gloves off, reaching a hand out.

“Oh...” Crowley almost retracted his hand, brows pinching in disgust. “You’re so sweaty, human.”

Newt scoffed. “Well I was just lifting heavy logs!”

“You didn’t even get to the chopping yet…” Crowley muttered, scooting his hold up to Newt’s wrist. “You were already all huffy and puffy.”

_ Unlike Aziraphale... _ Crowley’s thoughts trailed off, remembering Aziraphale’s controlled breathing and how the sheen of sweat somehow made him look ethereal. 

Newt tilted his head up as if asking for divine patience, before coming back down.

“Why are you here, Crowley?”

This meeting was longer than yesterday’s. Newton was able to run back into the house and find Crowley something to wear… after experiencing the same reaction to seeing the high sorcerer naked again. Anathema had left early in the morning to go into the nearest town for a bit of shopping so they had at least another hour before she came back.

At Newton’s insistence, and Crowley wanting to be better understood, he recounted that first night he went missing, when that witch came out of nowhere and cursed Crowley. He went into further detail than he anticipated, being able to talk and muse aloud was something he’d missed doing and found himself thinking out loud, using Newt as an audience to bounce insight and validation off of.

When he was finished, Newt went silent, absorbing it all in. He pushed his glasses up his nose.

“That’s… quite a story.”

“Yeah.” Crowley slumped, propping a hand under his chin and staring off down the wall of logs.

“But it’s over now.” Newton smiled, gesturing up and down Crowley’s very much not a snake body. “You’re back to normal.”

“How do you figure?” Crowley lifted his head from his hand to level Newt with a tired look. “The moment I stop touching you it’s...” Crowley blew out a puff of air while making an explosive gesture with his free hand. “Back to a snake.” 

Crowley slouched again. “So unless you are volunteering to live the rest of your life holding my hand I don’t see how things are different.”

“Uh… No. That’s not what I meant.”

“Good, didn’t really fancy having you with me forever. Plus I can’t even cast because of your...” Crowley threw out a hand, waving it generally at Newt. “Youness.”

They had assumed, from yesterday’s conversation, that Crowley performing magic would be pointless but had tried anyway. The same grace of genetics that broke the curse also prevented any other magic from being cast.

“What I mean is that we can tell Anathema-- or Aziraphale. They’ll help you, or they can get that guy from the palace back.” 

“You want me to tell Gabriel about what happened?” Crowley frowned. Thinking of the smug grin on that bastard’s face when he found out that Crowley had been beaten. When he found out that he had thrown Crowley out of the palace himself as a common pest! He would never hear the end of it. Gabriel would bring it up at every meeting. Any dinner they attended would involve Gabriel bringing up “that time you were a snake.” Crowley ground his teeth thinking of it.

“Yeah, we’ll just tell everyone that you lost to another witch.” Newt continued, unaware of the internal conflict within Crowley. “People should know that there is a powerful, unknown witch in the woods! That she is stronger than you! That some witch that no one heard of was able to get the better of you in the woods and you’ve been cursed this entire time. Then you can go back to the palace, and get everyone here out of your hair.”

“Everyone here...” Crowley repeated softly, thinking of Aziraphale, of how opposed he was to going to the city when Gabriel asked him. If he went back to the palace would he ever see Aziraphale again? What would Aziraphale think of him once he knew he was beaten by another witch? What would he think knowing he had basically babied the “powerful” Red Witch? Crowley had grown weak, unable to speak, to cast magic, to take care of himself.

Newt was studying him. “Don’t you want to go home?”

Crowley sat up straight, pulling at the edge of the borrowed tunic, fiddling with a loose thread. 

“It’s a lot to think about…” Crowley half lied. “Besides, reverting a curse can be difficult, especially one cast with vengeance. It can only be undone by the perpetrator or the victim. Usually there's a condition to meet.”

“Ah…” Newt nodded slowly. “But surely the help of other witches would be very appreciated, no?”

Crowley wasn’t listening, instead staring at his bare knees, knobbly and pale. He even looked weak, not that he wasn’t always thin. But suddenly, half naked and relying on a human for help and unable to perform magic, Crowley felt over exposed. 

Shit, he really did have a lot to think about.

“I should get back… back to Aziraphale,” Crowley mumbled. “Might wonder where I am.”

“Oh… okay.” As Newt spoke, Crowley let go of his wrist, falling to the ground and slipping out of the tunic, making his way back home.

  
  
  



	9. Chapter 9

Aziraphale woke up alone, which made him unexpectedly sad. _Silly thing, you’ve woken up alone most of your life, there’s no cause to be sad now. You should be happy even, not to wake with a snake curled up on your face today!_

During his stay Crawly had progressively moved up the bed each night, until one night when Aziraphale had woken up, unable to breath with a sleeping snake curled up on his face. He was sure it was an accident. Crawly was drawn to warmth, even in his sleep. There were a few repeat performances before they figured out that Crawly should sleep on his chest under the covers with him, or coiled up next to his face. 

Aziraphale sighed and sat up ruffling the flattened hair at the back of his head. He shouldn’t have gotten used to Crawly like this. To waking up to the press of scales next to him. _He’s recovered now from his injuries, he’ll be off to find a real witch any day now._

Aziraphale looked around his room but saw no black snake. _He’s hunting. He wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye… Even if I did yell at him last night._ Not that that had seemed to bother the serpent.

_ He’s out getting his breakfast, and I should get mine. _

Anathema had left the scones from yesterday with Aziraphale, knowing they would be appreciated. Aziraphale fried some eggs while he waited for his water to heat. It wasn’t a fancy breakfast but it would do. 

Aziraphale took his breakfast and tea to the table and started eating. The sun's rays were particularly, obnoxiously even, bright this morning. They would be, after Gabriel's presumptuous cleaning spell. The reminder of his old friend pinched Aziraphale's brows, glaring at the offending window. Surely Gabriel was enjoying a more impressive breakfast...

Aziraphale thought more about Gabriel’s offer. If he were in the city he could go out for breakfast. It wasn’t that his own breakfast wasn’t acceptable. The scones had dried out a little over night, and the eggs were a little burnt but they were still perfectly edible. But Aziraphale enjoyed nicer things. 

Raphael had been a decent hand at cooking with magic and had food preferences that this small town couldn’t accommodate. He passed those tastes on to Aziraphale, though he firmly denied taking responsibility. Aziraphale used to beg for his favorites, but Raphael would always laugh, pat his head, and say, “I’m not the witch to spoil you.”

_ If only you had taught me how to cook... I could spoil myself. _

That was the problem with the disappearance of the Red Witch. All Aziraphale could think about was the past.

Aziraphale had just finished his second scone when he heard a soft sound by the window. Looking over he saw Crawly slithering in. His black scales were shiny and a little iridescent in the sun, much better than how they were yesterday.

“Hello my dear, were you out hunting?”

The snake looked at him then rippled his upper body in what Aziraphale decided was a shrug.

“Did you catch anything?” Aziraphale didn’t want to think about the poor mice and rabbits that Crawly caught, but everyone has to eat. 

Crawly shook his head. 

Aziraphale frowned. “Are you hungry? I have some eggs left.” Crawly liked eggs. One morning Aziraphale had been cooking his breakfast and he turned around in time to see the last of the eggs he had set aside being devoured. He had bought extra after that.

Aziraphale set down the promised eggs on the table and sat down again. He finished his breakfast while Crawly gulped down his.

“I was thinking about yesterday.” Aziraphale finished his tea before looking up to the snake. Aziraphale finished his tea before looking up to the snake, finding Crawly's attention on him, as always.

“No one else thinks it’s worth it to keep looking. The Red Witch is a ‘lost cause.’ Raphael was a ‘lost cause’ too…” Aziraphale looked down, fiddling with his empty cup. 

“Do you think he’s dead?”

Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure if he was talking about Raphael or the Red Witch.

Crawly shook his head. Aziraphale smiled sadly and stroked the top of Crawly’s head. The snake had really started to open up to him. It was nice to have someone to talk to.

“I don’t either.” After a few moments of absently stroking Crowley’s head Aziraphale asked. “Do you think I could find him? If I looked.”

Crawly nodded, his gaze seemed intense as if there was something important the snake wanted to tell him.

Aziraphale waits, irrationally hoping the snake might say something. Familiars can't talk to a witch unless they are bound together, or in a form capable of human speech. 

The silence stretches, and Aziraphale sighs. He stands, gathers the cup and plate, bringing them over to the sink and washing them out. He doesn’t leave the sink when he finishes. Instead he looks out the window, wringing his hands. He knows the others are probably right, the Red Witch has been gone a long time. No one is likely to find him. 

They had been right all those years ago when Raphael disappeared. If they hadn’t stopped him he would probably still be searching the woods for his missing guardian. But Aziraphale doesn’t regret the time he spent searching for him. He doesn’t regret trying to locate the Red Witch yesterday. 

You never know.

“My dear, I’m going to go look for the Red Witch. I know I won’t find him… but I couldn’t live with myself if I didn't try. Will you come with me?”

Crawly wrapped his body around Aziraphale’s arm, tugging it back. When Aziraphale looked at him he shook his head. Aziraphale felt a surge of disappointment, which he tried to hide.

Aziraphale gently freed his arm. “I understand dear. The chair by the fire should be nice and cozy for a nap while I’m out.”

Crawly shook his head again, Aziraphale let out an exasperated sigh. “Make up your mind, you impossible serpent!.” Aziraphale looked at said serpent coiled up on the table. “I know it was dangerous in the woods for you. I wouldn’t be surprised if you never wanted to go back... I didn’t want to go back to the woods for years after I…” Aziraphale frowned, he didn’t want to talk about that right now. “My dear, right now there could be someone in the forest who needs help, like you did. I intend to go and try to find them if they are there.”

Aziraphale was packing a satchel with food and water when Crawly climbed up to his shoulder. 

“Oh? Did you change your mind, dear boy? Very brave of you.”

Crawly gave Aziraphale a little squeeze and Aziraphale smiled and scratched under his chin. “Thank you. It will be much better with you there.”

Aziraphale opened the closet where he kept the broom he had bought recently. It wasn’t the best broom, it was old, describing it even as “second-hand” was a compliment too high for it. But it still worked and that was all that mattered. 

Aziraphale mounted the broom carefully, like all magic flying a broom was spotty at best for him. “Crawly, dear, please make sure you have a good grip on me.” Aziraphale gave a nervous chuckle. “I never quite got the hang of controlling a broom.”

Crawly didn’t seem to believe him until their first lurching ascent, his body scrambling for better purchase around Azriaphale’s neck and shoulders, before Aziraphale settled back on the ground a few feet away.

The town children on their first training brooms had better take offs and more air time.

Aziraphale blew out a breath and readjusted his grip on the broom to try again. Once they were actually in the air things would be easier.

There were another two aborted take offs, before they were truly airborne. Crawly was clinging to him tightly now. 

They flew over the forest and Crawly did not lessen his grip. Every bit of turbulence seemed to only cause him to cling tighter.

After a few calming breaths, Aziraphale relaxed, taking in the land around them. It’d been a while since he’d been on a broomstick, but one never forgot the feel of fresh air blowing against your skin, the quiet tranquility of being in the sky. Crawly seemed to feel Aziraphale’s steady breathing and loosened up minutely. Aziraphale silently thanked the snake for that, he’d never felt Crawly that tight around his neck before.

Below them the tops of trees passed by. Aziraphale wasn’t going too fast, always preferring to fly more defensively, for safety but also to not run into birds… which had happened on occasion. 

“You are doing very well, Crawly,” Aziraphale praised, keeping his eyes forward. “I know I’m not very good… Gabriel and Michael used to let me ride their old training brooms.” Aziraphale felt the smile on his face fall a little. “I’m afraid that beyond that they weren’t much help. They said flying was natural for ‘real witches.’ If I couldn’t fly then I wasn’t really a witch.” Aziraphale sighed. “And Raphael always told me that ‘learning to fly like this is pointless for you.’” He quoted his guardian with a lower octave, mimicking how he remembered being lectured.

“Everything was pointless or forbidden with Raphael. I think he was trying to protect me, but it was so frustrating. Nothing I did was right! He was always upset with me for not being careful.”

The trees were whipping by a little faster now, Aziraphale angled higher into the sky, feeling himself getting distracted looking at them. Aziraphale was glad for the cloudless warm weather they had gotten today. It made flying almost fun… despite the reason why, and Aziraphale becoming lost in his own thoughts again.

“There were days, especially when I first started living with him, when he wouldn’t even let me out of the house,” Aziraphale continued, recalling details he usually never let himself get absorbed in.

“‘Aziraphale, you know you can’t go out like that. Once you’ve changed you can go play with the kids.’ I don’t even remember what exactly he was objecting too!”

Aziraphale yelped as the broom dipped suddenly. He could have cursed himself, letting his concentration wane like that. He scrambled to right the broom, take back control but it was too late, they were dropping out of the sky. 

Aziraphale's heart leapt up into his throat as they plummeted down, a hand flew up to keep Crawly secure, the other gripping the broom handle tightly. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, attempting to focus his energy back into the broom but even if Aziraphale was a skilled witch, riding with one hand was notoriously difficult.

The broom wiggled with magical energy, leveling them out a little but still very much out of Aziraphale's control. 

He screamed suddenly as he felt his feet catch on the top of a tree and they began spiraling out of control, smacking into tree branches and blinded by leaves as they descended madly into the thick of it all.

A rush of air left Aziraphale’s lungs as the tip of his broom caught on a branch and unseated him, hurtling him towards the ground. He panicked, limbs thrashing in the air before remembering Crawly around his neck with a painful lurch in his gut.

“Crawly!” Aziraphale pulled at the snake around his shoulders. He needed to protect him from impact!

A low hanging branch stopped Aziraphale before hitting the ground, the impact vaulting Crawly from his hands. Stunned, adrenaline coursing through his veins, Aziraphale watched in horror as Crawly was now free falling. He grappled the branch for stability, his mind racing. Gnarled tree roots bulging out promised the looming impact for Crawly would not be a soft one .  Aziraphale grit his teeth painfully, he had to protect Crawly, he hadn’t even wanted to come!

“Crawly!” Aziraphale screamed and reached out with everything he had just as his own branch snapped and gravity finally took him to the ground.

He landed with a hard thud on his side, something definitely breaking on impact. Aziraphale’s head snapped up, searching and finding Crawly still in the air but… floating. His serpentine body writhing and agitated as he gently fell to the ground, like he was in slow motion.

Aziraphale watched, jaw dropped in wonder, until Crawly finally made it back to Earth, light as a feather. 

“Crawly! I’m so glad that spell worked, and you aren’t hurt.” 

It was a spell, Aziraphale was fairly sure it was his spell, but maybe it was Crawly’s. Familiars could cast magic, maybe Crawly had wanted to save himself. It had _felt_ like his spell, and he had wanted Crawly safe. 

Maybe he was projecting? He had wanted to protect Crawly so much that he felt like he cast the spell, when really it was Crawly. Aziraphale did have magic, but he had trouble with the basics, how could he possibly cast that spell?

The last few minutes were a blur, confusing and surreal, time distended and contracted in his memory. He could remember seeing Crawly free falling and it was as if time had stopped in that moment. 

He wiped his sweat soaked hair back from his forehead, his hand was still shaking from the adrenaline. Crawly was safe. Whichever of them had cast the spell, Crawly was unharmed.

Aziraphale looked over at his companion to reassure himself.

Crawly was looking around, his tongue flicking furiously. He was moving quickly, still flicking his tongue. _Is he looking for something? Or maybe there is something nearby that’s upsetting him._

Aziraphale tried to stand up, but when he moved his arm to support himself he cried out. 

“I think I may have broken my arm,” he hissed as he tried to flex his wrist. “If the broom survived-- oh I hope it did, I just bought that broom…” Aziraphale mourned briefly for its uncertain demise. “If it survived, we won’t be able to use it to get home.”

Crawly was still looking around, circling closer to Aziraphale, tongue flicking as he tried to catch whatever scent it was that upset him. 

Aziraphale was looking at him curiously, whatever was going on must be important. 

“What are you looking for, dear boy?” Crawly didn’t seem to hear him, continuing his hunt for the elusive something. “Crawly…” Aziraphale took a deep breath, which hurt. “Crawly, we just had a terrible fall, and you cast a powerful spell to save yourself at the end there. Perhaps you should take it easy for a little?”

Crawly stopped his search and came over to Aziraphale. He was looking up at him but Aziraphale couldn’t read his body language.

Aziraphale used his good arm to brace himself on the tree that had contributed to their current predicament. “Come on, let’s find the broom, if we can.”

Aziraphale groaned as he hauled himself up, his entire body aching, but nothing else felt broken.

With shaky steps, Aziraphale began searching for his broom, sticking to their area, using his good arm to push away brush and foliage. His body felt slow and sluggish, still coming down from their accident. After a minute of searching he noticed that Crawly was still where he last had been, not even looking at him. 

Aziraphale noticed his lack of movement and frowned. “You aren’t hurt are you?” He made his way back to Crawly. “Oh, I thought the spell saved you… but I suppose you were hurt before that? I’m sorry my dear. This is all my fault.” 

Aziraphale looked away, unable to meet Crawly’s eyes. He shouldn’t have brought him, Aziraphale knew how bad he was at flying. This is why he wasn’t allowed to as a child. Raphael and Gabriel were right, he couldn’t do this, or any other magic. It was pointless for him.

Aziraphale sighed, taking hold of his limp, broken arm. “I’m sorry my dear. Once we find the broom we can head back. I’ll bring you to the healer.”

Crawly slithered into his view and shook his head. 

“You aren’t hurt?”

Again Crawly shook his head.

Aziraphale smiled. _Well at least that’s something that went right in this whole mess._

He bent down intending to offer his arm to Crawly, but a stab of pain brought him up short. His good arm clutched his broken one again, teeth gritting.

“Crawly, dear, could you possibly make your own way?”

Crawly climbed the tree next to him and slid onto his shoulders. Aziraphale never gave thought to how heavy Crawly was until his thick body pressed and slid along fresh aches and bruises. He bit back to urge to whine in pain and instead tried to adjust the serpent as best he could, forgetting at one point about his arm and moving it only to be sharply reminded.

A few minutes more of searching and the broom was found, impaled deep in a forsythia, it’s sad dingy straw  bristles nearly blending in with the bright lively yellow of the flowers around it. About half the bristles were gone, the wood itself banged and scraped, and the remaining stems had leaves knotted into them, but miraculously the broom was whole. 

Aziraphale slung the broom over his good shoulder, careful not to hit Crawly.

“Well,” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Well, dear boy, it’s a little embarrassing to admit, but uh, I seem to have, um, gotten us lost.”

The snake gave him a flat look.

“Oh don’t look at me like that. Do you know the way?” The flat look continued. “I didn’t think so. I propose that we walk in a single direction until we find a path or some other landmark we know.”

Crawly shook his head.

“Do you have a better idea?”

The snake glared at him and looked away.

“I believe this direction is the direction we came from, so we might as well try it.”

They walked in silence for some time, both hoping that they weren’t walking in circles and trying to judge if the trees they passed were the same trees they already passed, or just similar. Was that the same deer they had seen earlier? The same pair of rabbits?

The trees looked the same, though some places were full of dense shadow, heavy with the damp smell of dark places, and other places were dappled liberally with sunlight.

Aziraphale liked the places where the light broke through, flowering vegetation pushed up in the light, filling the air with a sweet smell. 

Crawly had been tasting the air every few minutes and didn’t give any sign that he could tell they had doubled back on themselves. Aziraphale counted that a good sign.

They stopped in a small clearing filled with salvia, a small boulder could be seen just between the purple flowers. Aziraphale sat on the sun warmed stone, which was only slightly too tall for him to be comfortable and ate some of the food he had packed. Crawly had refused Aziraphale’s offer to wait while Crawly hunted for his own lunch.

Aziraphale ate one of the last remaining scones first and then some bread and cheese. They saw at the edge of the clearing a flash of red, which caused Aziraphale’s heart to stop. No, they couldn’t have actually found the Red Witch could they? 

But no, it was only a fox.

Aziraphale didn’t want to keep walking, his feet hurt and his body ached. He took a deep steadying breath and stood. He had to get home, he had to get Crawly home.

The day was still warm as it aged into evening, though the edge of chill could be felt. The bird song which had filled the forest faded, only the occasional night bird singing now.

“I was lost in these woods once.” Aziraphale hadn’t meant to speak. The words had slipped out. Something to fill the silence. Maybe voicing the looming memories would help keep them from overtaking him, plunging him back into that panic he had felt back then. He realized he’d been talking to Crawly a lot… telling him so much more than he’d ever shared with another person. There was something trusting about his snake, and he listened so well and eagerly.

“It was the day I lost my parents… Or I think that was the day. I… I’m afraid I don’t remember what they looked like, or what their names were. I can’t really remember anything before Raphael found me. Sometimes when I think about it I can remember playing with a ewe, or swimming in a pond.” Aziraphale twitched a smile. “I used to love swimming. Floating on the water, bobbing below the surface. I loved the feel of the water rolling down my back.”

Aziraphale’s smile was wider now as he remembered. He could almost feel his feet beating below the surface, remember the way he would glide across water as he swam.

His smile fell and he looked down. “That was another thing Raphael stopped me from doing. He always said it wasn’t safe.” Aziraphale frowned. “There used to be a pond in the yard, but he found me playing in it one day and filled it in.” 

Crawly nudged his face. 

Aziraphale tried to smile again, “I suppose he was worried I would drown.”

Aziraphale huffed and looked away, “ridiculous. Swimming was how he found me.”

Aziraphale straightened the broom on his shoulder. “I told you I was lost in the woods. I remember that night, I dream about it still. The trees were so big, and everything was scary. I remember wishing I could fly, leave the woods, escape…” Aziraphale frowned, in his dreams the woods were always too dense for flight, he could never take off, the night too dark, the tree branches seemed to be twisted together like a net. 

“I don’t remember what I was running from… I was running, but it was hard. Every sound was the end, was being caught.” Aziraphale’s voice got more and more quiet as he became lost in his memory. The underbrush back then kept catching at him, tangling him. He’d torn free each time, though it exhausted him. He remembered… They were coming, he had to run, he had to leave. They told him to run and hide, not to come back. He was so small, the forest was so big, he hadn’t been in the forest before, it was so dark, branches shading even the moonlight. The trees seemed to form in the darkness, blocking him, forcing him to change course, but always away. He was lost. Lost was dangerous. They told him he would be found if he got lost. He was lost and they were going to get him.

Crawly’s cold snout against his cheek snapped Aziraphale out of the memory. He took as deep a breath as he could comfortably,_ that was long ago. Raphael found you, nothing to worry about. You silly thing, you are quite safe._

“Eventually I came to a river,” Aziraphale continued, shaking away the unease, keeping his feet moving. “I was so happy. I knew I would be safe in the river. I swam and floated down the river most of the night. Raphael found me in the morning, I was nested into some tall grass by that wall over by the old orchard, right by the river.”

Aziraphale could practically hear his guardian.

_ “What are you doing in the grass like that, you silly goose? Where are your parents?” _

Aziraphale inhaled sharply, pulling away from the memory.

“Have I taken you there my dear?” Crawly shook his head. “When we get back I’ll show you.”

The last fading embers of the sunset were hardly breaking through the canopy. Aziraphale saw Crawly not so much as a snake but a sinuous patch of darker darkness.

They must be close to the village now, or a road at least, though if it got much darker Aziraphale might not even realize it if he did find the road. 

He could feel blisters on his feet from hours of walking, he should have worn better shoes, he must have some that were good for walks.

“I remember he seemed so big, but he was gentle. He picked me up and carried me to his home. He adopted me, helped me heal. I remember he wouldn’t let me leave my room for weeks. I needed to ‘get better’ before anyone could see me.”

Aziraphale doesn’t remember being hurt, but all he could think of that night was running.

“I never found out what happened to my family, for sure. Why I was running. Raphael said that humans…” Aziraphale’s voice hitched and there were tears in his eyes. “Raphael said that humans got them. That they were killed by witchfinders.”

It was probably true. He remembered being scared of humans for a long time. Now however he isn’t sure what was his memory and what was the paranoia instilled in him by his guardian.

Humans had wiped out several families that Raphael was close to, and he had never let any humans near Aziraphale. Whenever a human came to town Raphael would hide Aziraphale away. But if Aziraphale was half human, maybe they had been his family. He had asked Raphael about it once, years after Raphael had taken him in. Raphael had been quiet for a long moment, “oh my silly goose.” That was Raphael’s favorite nickname for him, even as Aziraphale matured and insisted he call him something else. “I promise you, no human is looking for you, and with luck, no human ever will.”

It was silly. No one was ever looking for him. Raphael checked for his family, for anyone looking for him. No one was looking for him.

Aziraphale’s next words, they were so soft even he could hardly hear his own voice.

“Sometimes…” He paused, feeling shame well up inside him. “Sometimes… I shouldn’t say it. But sometimes I wonder if they did die, or if they just gave up on me. If I got lost and wasn’t worth finding.”

Crawly pressed his head to Aziraphale’s forehead.

After that Aziraphale was quiet for a while. 

The sun had fully set, the crescent moon replacing it, a dim and distant light and the night chill was setting in. Crawly was starting to get sluggish with the cold, his body beginning to drape over Aziraphale’s shoulders like a shawl.

“It’s alright to sleep my dear,” Aziraphale whispered, touching a finger to Crawly’s cool scales. “I’ll watch over you.”

Crawly picked his head up defiantly and flicked his tongue, surveying the forest as he had earlier. 

Aziraphale tried to hide his amusement at his proud serpent. 

“I know we didn’t find anyone, but I’m still glad we tried. I don’t even know what I would do if I met the Red Witch. I’ve never met anyone famous.” Aziraphale frowned. “I suppose Gabriel is famous, but he doesn’t really count.” 

The serpent nodded. 

“Already formed an opinion of Gabriel? I may have done him a disservice when I told you about our childhood. I’m sure he’d treat you better. He has always wanted a familiar.”

Crawly shook his head, which was now much lower than it had been.

“He would be a powerful witch to bond with.”

Crawly did what seemed like an eye roll.

“No, I would never want to be bound to Gabriel either. I know familiars are supposed to bond with witches that are strong, however if I were a familiar, I would want to be with someone kind. What about the Red Witch?” 

Aziraphale didn’t really want Crawly to leave, but if Crawly could bond with a powerful witch he would be safe and protected for the rest of his life.

“Would you like to meet the Red Witch?”

Crawly took a long time before he did a body wave which seemed to be a shrug.

“I’ve never met him, but they say he’s charming. I’m sure it would be nice to be bound to him. He could give his familiar anything they wanted.” 

Crawly didn’t respond to that, and Aziraphale thought he might be asleep from the cold. It was always hard to tell since he couldn’t close his eyes. 

Eventually Aziraphale heard the murmur of water and came to a somnolent river. The river reminded Aziraphale of Crawly, in the night it was nearly black with only the occasional gleam of reflected moonlight to indicate where its serpentine course lead._ I wonder if this is the same river..._

Following it downstream, Aziraphale found it was the same river and he was at the edge of town. 

He quietly returned to his own home, mindful of his sleeping neighbors.

Aziraphale set the broom against the wall so he could fumble with the lock with his one good hand. The door finally opened and they walked into the dark home. 

“Oh, dear, I’m afraid it’s terribly late.” He left the broom by the closet. “I hate to bother the healer this late… maybe I should wait till morning? It’s only a broken arm.” As he said this he moved the arm in question and winced in pain. “On the other hand perhaps it is best to get this seen to. I’ll just drop you off, would you like me to start a fire, my dear? It’s gotten quite cold.”

Crawly pulled Aziraphale towards his book shelves. Aziraphale frowned, he kept hoping Crawly would end his fascination with his books.

“My dear, please don’t knock more books down while I’m out.”

Crawly shook his head and pulled again. With a sigh Aziraphale walked to his shelf._ I suppose if I’m here at least I can try to catch them._ He turned so Crawly could easily slide off his shoulder to the shelf, but the snake didn’t move. Instead, he seemed to consider the shelves for a moment, then he tilted his head to the books on healing.

It took Aziraphale a moment to understand what Crawly was doing “Ah. You think I should heal myself.”

Crawly nodded. Aziraphale sighed. It seemed Crawly hadn’t seen Aziraphale try enough spells, if they were lucky nothing would happen when he cast.

“You have seen me try spells, Crawly, you know they don’t often… well I don’t want to put out a fire with a broken arm.”

Crawly seemed to think about it, then he pressed his snout to a book of healing potions. 

“My dear, even potions don’t work for me.” Aziraphale tried to walk away but Crawly tightened his grip on him tugging as best he could. 

Aziraphale sighed. “I really am tired, Crawly, I don’t want to fight with you.”

Crawly pressed his nose one more time to the book of potions. Aziraphale huffed and snatched the book off the shelf. “Fine. I will make a potion but when it fails I don’t want to hear any more about casting ever again. Agreed?” 

At least if the potion went wrong nothing but the potion would be on fire.

Crawly nodded his head.

Aziraphale walked into his kitchen and started snatching herbs haphazardly and dropping them on the counter beside his cauldron. The fire was stoked and the cauldron heated, all in a huffy silence. His entire body hurt, he couldn’t use one arm without even more pain and this ridiculous creature wanted him to waste time on a useless potion.

_I could already be at the healer now._

Aziraphale grumbled in frustration. Gods his joints ached. Aziraphale desperately needed a hot bath after this. Why couldn’t Crawly just accept that he wasn’t able to do this? Aziraphale couldn’t cast magic.

He began to read outloud, his voice clipped and cold. “Two measure water, heated to a boil.” He dumped the water into the cauldron. He almost went to the next step without waiting for the water to boil, a snap from Crawly interrupted that process.

Luckily the water was boiling in no time thanks to the cauldron already being hot.

“One stick of cinnamon, two cat’s claw flowers.” He tossed the stick in and had grabbed two yellow flowers, crushing them in his hand, ready to empty them into the cauldron as well when Crawly quickly wrapped himself around his arm and pulled back. 

“What are you doing? You impossible snake! You wanted me to make this useless potion!” Crawly shook his head and bumped his nose against Aziraphale’s still closed fist. 

Aziraphale opened his hand. “This? Cat’s claw flowers! Just like the book said!” 

Crowley shook his head again and tilted his head at the crushed flowers.

Aziraphale huffed and pointed at the book. “Cat’s claw!” Then opened his hand again, “and what’s this but… oh…” Aziraphale lifted his hand to look more closely at the long tubular flowers in his hand. “These are cat’s claw trumpets. You were quite right my dear.” Aziraphale consigned the flowers to the fire under his cauldron and with more caution picked the right flowers. 

The rest of the ingredients he picked with more caution, though Crawly still stopped him from making a few mistakes. Aziraphale wanted to blame the recipe, what he thought were “medium sized leaves” were actually quite large and soon began to run every decision by his snake before committing it to the pot. Small details mattered, even how you stirred. Aziraphale hadn’t known that, always just tossing the ingredients in and stirring to incorporate. Finally a green potion was bubbling in the cauldron just waiting for the right words to finish it. 

Aziraphale started speaking, carefully reading from the book. He could feel excitement, the potion wasn’t a charred mess to be scraped from the cauldron. It was even the right color, this was the most promising potion he had ever brewed, even if he still doubted it would work. As he finished his words he felt more focused than he ever had when casting.

All that was left was for the potion to cool enough to drink. 

“Crawly, I… I’m sorry. About earlier I mean. I was upset, but you were right, I was making a mistake.” Aziraphale smiled and scratched him under the chin. “I don’t want you to be disappointed when this potion doesn’t work. You were still very helpful.”

When the potion was ready Aziraphale poured it out into a heavy ceramic mug and giving Crawly a weak smile said, “here goes nothing.” He drank it all in one go, then grimaced. “Oh, that is quite awful tasting.” He closed his eyes in disgust, smacking his lips and trying to rid the taste from his mouth. He opened his eyes and took a breath, feeling his stomach churning. 

Doubling over slightly, Aziraphale’s arms crossed around his middle, breathing out.

“Oh, I think I might be sick.”

Aziraphale suddenly realized what his arms were doing and straightened up, flexing his once broken arm without pain. “Oh, it worked!” He smiled at Crawly. “My dear! It really worked!” Aziraphale rubbed up and down his arm, giving it a pat and wiggling happily. “I wish it hadn’t tasted so vile. But that was the first potion I have ever made that worked!”

Crawly pushed his body up, lifting his head high, his eyes seemed to light up.

“Oh, my dear Crawly,” Aziraphale dipped his head to bump his forehead against the snake’s. “You’re truly special. Thank you so much for everything.”

Aziraphale pulled back and Crawly’s tongue came out to lick the tip of his nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone curious, the direction Aziraphale picked was wrong.


End file.
